Drew feels it.
His hand stills once at the back of my head.
Then keeps moving.
“Yes,” I whisper. “That one.”
“Hm.”
I know that hum.
That is my mother filing things away for later while prioritizing the current emergency.
Then her voice changes.
Less soft now.
Still loving.
Sharper underneath.
“So tell me exactly what happened.”
And because I’m too tired to guard it now, I do.
My mother is quiet for so long I think maybe the call dropped.
Then, in that low Southern drawl she only uses when she’s done being gentle and is about to go full campaign manager on my emotions, she says:
“He did not choose her.”
I blink into the dim room.
My voice comes out small.
“What?”
“He did not choose her,” she repeats. “He chose himself.”
Drew’s hand pauses again in my hair.
Just for a second.
Then continues.
I swallow.
“Mama—”
“No, baby, listen to me.” Her voice firms. “Those are not the same thing.”
I stare at the fire.
At the rain-smudged windows.
At the soft blur of Drew’s living room lit gold around the edges.
“He didn’t run to her,” my mother says. “He didn’t leave you and go put a ring on Stella Cortez’s finger under the library lights. He didn’t choose her and he didn’t choose you. He stepped back.”
