“This year, we’re only having dinner with my wife’s family,” my son told me. I simply replied, “perfect.”

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That mattered.

“In the last few years, was there any point when you felt like I actually valued you?”

I thought before answering.

“There were good moments.”

“But?”

“Most of the time, I felt like you tolerated me because I was your mother.”

He closed his eyes.

“That’s what I was afraid you’d say.”

“Fear doesn’t help you now.”

“No.”

“You need to understand why.”

“I let Carla decide everything.”

“That explains part of it.”

“It doesn’t excuse me.”

“No.”

“At first it was little things. Restaurants. Clothes. Who we invited. Then I stopped questioning anything because it was easier.”

“And eventually I disappeared.”

“Yes.”

His voice broke.

“Don’t turn this into a war against your wife.”

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“She did terrible things.”

“So did you.”

He nodded.

“I know.”

“Blaming Carla completely would just be another way of avoiding your own decisions.”

“I know.”

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