“You told me I had expired,” she reminded him.
“I was angry.”
“No. You were a self-centered jerk. You still are.”
He tried again. “I thought I could start over.”
Mom’s voice was steady. “You didn’t leave because I expired. You left because you thought you never would.”
The room went silent. For the first time, I saw my father with no script, no angle, no image to maintain—just a small, foolish man sitting in the wreckage of his vanity.
Mom drew a slow breath. “I hope you survive what you chose. But I am not part of your solution.”
She turned and walked out. We followed.
Outside, the night air was sharp and clean. Mom stood by the car, face lifted to the sky. She smiled—a fierce, strong smile unlike any I’d ever seen.
For the first time, she didn’t leave any piece of herself behind.
