I looked around the room.
The little kitchen. The old table. Dale’s recliner. The violets by the window. My two brass keys hanging on a hook beside the door.
“Yes,” I said. “I am.”
She nodded, but I could see she was fighting something inside herself.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m failing you. I should have a bigger house. I should be able to take care of you.”
I turned toward her.
“Michelle, your father and I spent years believing that being good parents meant giving our children everything we could. A good home. Enough food. An education. A chance to do better than we did.”
I paused.
“But somewhere along the way, you started believing that being a good daughter meant making sure I never had to struggle.”
She looked at me.
“And I started believing that being a good mother meant never becoming a burden to you. Neither of us was being fair to the other.”
