“I stopped seeing you as a person.”
I looked at him.
“You were just Mom.”
“Then start asking.”
He did.
Carla was different.
Her first messages were defensive apologies.
I wish you had told me my comments bothered you.
We all made mistakes.
I didn’t answer.
A month later, she asked to meet alone.
I agreed.
She came without makeup or her usual polished confidence.
“I started therapy.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know how to relate to people without comparing.”
That surprised me.
“I grew up in a family obsessed with presentation. Schools. Neighborhoods. Clothes. Restaurants. Who knew whom. I swore I wouldn’t become like that.”
“But you did.”
“Worse.”
“That explains you. It doesn’t excuse you.”
“I know.”
For the first time, she named what she had done.
My dresses.