I leaned against the doorframe, suddenly exhausted.
“Mom, what do you think I won?”
She had no answer.
So I answered for her.
“My children cried on New Year’s Eve. Dad is moving out. Brent may face legal consequences. You’re standing on my porch with toys you should have bought because you loved them, not because you got caught. What part of this looks like winning?”
Something flickered across her face.
For a moment, she looked almost old.
Then it vanished.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“No.”
“You are.”
“No, Mom. I am surviving it.”
The word seemed to irritate her.
“You had a good childhood.”
I stared at her.
There it was. The oldest door. The one she always opened when she wanted me to walk backward into gratitude.
“I had food,” I said. “I had clothes. I had school supplies. And I had a mother who could make a nine-year-old feel guilty for needing comfort.”
