“Mom… maybe you should go.”
I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. I simply picked up my small suitcase, the same one carrying the photo album meant for Ethan, and said quietly:
That night, I stayed in a budget hotel near the bus station, letting the tears come only when I was alone. It felt like something inside me had cracked, but in that quiet room, something else began to form—something steadier, something stronger.
A week later, at two in the morning, my phone rang. Robert’s voice trembled with worry. He said he needed help—financial help—and it was urgent.
He asked me for a large sum of money, more than I had ever given anyone at once. Half of everything I had saved during my thirty years of teaching.
As he talked, all I could picture was the front door closing between us at Ethan’s birthday party. I thought about all the moments over the years when I had stepped aside, softened my voice, adjusted myself just to keep the peace.
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