I studied her face.
I had spent months wondering whether my mother had ever truly understood the damage she had caused.
Now, at least, she seemed to understand that love was not enough to repair it.
“I don’t know if I can trust you again,” I told her.
“I understand.”
“And I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive you for what happened with Daniel.”
She nodded, tears filling her eyes.
“But if we’re going to have any kind of relationship,” I continued, “you have to stop deciding what I can handle. I would rather hear an ugly truth than be comforted by a beautiful lie.”
“I promise.”
I believed that she meant it.
Whether she would keep that promise was something only time could answer.
I reached for my cup, and she reached for hers.
Our hands did not touch.
Not yet.
But we stayed at the table until the café began to close, speaking more honestly than we had in years.
