My mother looked down.
“I wanted to protect you.”
“I know, Mama. But sometimes it felt as though protecting my reputation was more important than understanding me.”
She began crying again.
“I never wanted you to feel that way.”
I reached for her hand.
“I know.”
It wasn’t a complete reconciliation. We couldn’t undo the years of silence in a single conversation.
But it was the first time my mother had listened without immediately telling me what I should have done.
Before she left, she squeezed my fingers.
“I need time,” she whispered.
“So do I.”
After she walked out, I sat by the window and watched the morning light spread across the street.
I knew there would be gossip.
I knew my father might not forgive me quickly. I knew some relatives would hear a distorted version of the story and judge me without ever asking what had actually happened.
