It simply made the truth harder to ignore.
Three months after the discovery, my mother asked whether I would meet her for coffee.
I almost refused.
Then I realized that avoiding her would not make my pain disappear. I didn’t owe her immediate forgiveness, but I wanted to know whether there was anything left between us that could be rebuilt.
We met at a quiet café where we used to have breakfast on Sunday mornings.
She looked older than I remembered.
When she saw me, she stood up, but she didn’t try to hug me.
“Thank you for coming,” she said.
I sat across from her.
For a while, we talked about nothing important. The weather. Her garden. My work. Ordinary subjects that once would have filled an entire afternoon.
Finally, she put down her cup.
“I need to tell you something, Claire.”
I felt my shoulders tense.
She noticed.
