“Madison—”
“This afternoon,” I repeat, cutting him off. “Or you can handle it without me, and we can all watch the man implode together. Your call.”
I hang up before he can breathe another syllable.
I stand there for a heartbeat, hand on the doorknob, letting the version of me who turns grown men into obedient creatures slip away.
I try to find the other version of me. The one who belongs here. I smooth my expression into something gentler, then I push the door open.
“Mom?” I call out.
“In here, baby.”
The curtains are open, letting in a soft morning light that makes the room look peaceful. It’s a lie, of course. This room hasn’t been peaceful in a decade.
My mother is sitting at the table, her coat already on and her purse perched beside her. Her hair is brushed back, dark and shot through with silver strands. She’s small now. Time and the weight of her own mind have carved her into a softer, more fragile shape. She’s wearing her muted rose lipstick. It’s her way of telling the world she’s fine.
She looks up, and her face catches the light.
There it is. The smile that makes me want to cry and scream at the same time because no matter how many times I have to be the parent in this relationship, she’s still my mother.
“Hi,” she says, standing with a slight wobble. “Come here.”
I cross the room and let her hug me. Her arms are warm, but they feel like paper. She holds on for asecond too long.
“How are you doing, Mom?” I murmur into her hair.
“I’m good, baby,” she says, pulling back to inspect me. “It’s a good day.”
“Good.” I keep my voice bright, matching her tone. “Where’s Dad?”
Her smile stays, but her eyes flick away for a fraction of a second before she waves a dismissive hand.
“Your father had some work to do. He’ll be back later.”
I roll my eyes before I can stop the reflex.
“Madison,” she says softly. “Don’t be so hard on your father. He’s a good man.”
“I know,” I say quickly, because I do. I know it the way you know a truth you still resent. “He is.”
“He worries,” she adds, lowering herself back into her chair. “He just… doesn’t know what to do with it, so he hides.”
I drop into the seat across from her, lacing my fingers together. It keeps me from cleaning or organizing just to feel a semblance of control.
“Neither do I,” I admit.
My mother reaches across the table to touch my hand.
“You’re a good daughter,” she says. “I hate feeling like a burden.”
The words hit a bruise I’ve been carrying since I was twelve.
For a second, the kitchen disappears. I’m not twenty-nine with a career and a schedule. I’m seventeen, learning to keep my voice steady as my stomach flips. I’m nineteen, standing in a hospital hallway, pretending I’m not terrified because if I lookscared, the whole world might end.
I clear my throat, pushing the ghosts back down.
“You’re not a burden,” I say, and I mean it, but the words still land heavy in my chest, because loving someone and carrying them aren’t the same. I’ve been doing both for so long, I don’t know where one ends and the other begins.
