Her face went pale.
I had never said it like that before.
Clear.
Plain.
Undeniable.
“You were trying to protect children,” I said. “I understand that. I even respect that part of you. But you chose to protect them by stealing from me. Then you called it sacrifice because that sounded prettier.”
Her eyes glistened.
I had seen my mother cry before.
Usually when she needed something.
This was different.
This looked like a crack spreading through old stone.
“I did what I had to do,” she whispered.
“No,” I said. “You did what you knew I would survive.”
That landed.
I saw it.
For a moment, the whole past year sat between us.
My duffel bag.
The house keys on the counter.
The diner floor.
The rejection letters.
Mr. Gideon’s brass key.
All of it.
My mother looked out at the empty laundromat.
Then she opened the car door.
