The rest of the day passed with me replaying the look on my mother’s face.
By nightfall, I already knew what I was going to do.
The next day, I arrived at the house two hours early.
My mother was resting in her chair in the kitchen when I walked in.
“You came early,” she said softly.
“I wanted to check on you,” I replied. “Make sure you have everything you need.”
She nodded.
I went into the kitchen and began preparing a meal.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
“Why was I always the one you kept at a distance?” I asked suddenly.
My mother looked away.
“Oh, Miranda, that’s not—”
“No,” I said gently but firmly. “Please don’t brush it off.”
She stayed quiet.
Finally, she sighed.
“You reminded me of the moment your father left,” she said. “The bills and fear. It all happened at once. And you were there, right in the middle of it.”
I listened.
Her voice wavered.
“It wasn’t because of who you are, just wrong timing. I thought if I didn’t get too close, it wouldn’t hurt as much.”
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