My eyes moved faster across the page.
Another reply.
The next year, she tried again.
Another reply.
“I don’t want you in my life.”
The year after that:
You chose money over me. You are not my mother.
She kept writing.
I could feel my pulse pounding in my throat.
She kept writing anyway.
Every year, another apology. Every year, another attempt to explain without asking me to excuse her.
And every year, she said, I answered.
“Leave me alone.”
My mother wrote that those letters broke something in her each time they arrived.
I stopped reading.
She said she wanted to respect my wishes, but she could never bring herself to stop completely.
So once a year, she tried again.
I stopped reading.
“No.”
My husband looked up from across the room.
He came closer.
“What?”
I stared at the letter.
“No. That didn’t happen.”
He came closer. “What didn’t?”
I looked at him. “I never wrote to her.”
I stared at the letter.
He said nothing.
“I never got letters from her either. Not one. Ever.”
My hands started shaking again.
Suddenly, the whole thing felt different.
For the first time, I wondered whether my mother was telling me the truth at all.
He said nothing.
