My mother hadn’t spoken to me in fifteen years, but when she appeared at my front door, she didn’t apologize.
She smiled.
Then she opened her arms toward the newborn sleeping against my chest and said, “We’re ready to forgive you.”
For a moment, I thought I had misheard.
Behind me, my four-week-old daughter, Ren, made a tiny sleepy sound against my shoulder. Somewhere inside, our dryer hummed. A cartoon played quietly on the television because Silas had forgotten to turn it off before going upstairs.
Everything about my life was ordinary.
Safe.
Mine.
And on my porch stood the woman who had watched my father throw my suitcase onto a rain-soaked lawn when I was nineteen.
She carried a casserole dish covered in aluminum foil.
As if fifteen years of silence could be repaired with baked chicken.
“Forgive me?” I repeated.
Mom’s smile wavered.
“You know what I mean, Colleen. We’ve all made mistakes.”
I stared at her.
“No. I don’t think I do.”
Her eyes dropped to Ren.
“Oh, look at her.”
She stepped forward.
Her hands lifted.
Instinct moved faster than thought.
I stepped back.
Mom froze.
Something flickered across her face—not hurt.
