“She made me feel like a bad mother.”
“No,” I said. “She noticed you were one.”
The words landed between us like broken glass.
My mother lifted her hand, not to strike me, but in that old gesture of command, as if she could still rearrange my face into obedience.
I stepped back.
Her hand fell.
“I want to see Emma and Noah,” she said.
“No.”
“I’m their grandmother.”
“Then you should have acted like it when it mattered.”
“How long are you going to punish me?”
“Until I can trust you not to punish them.”
She stared at me.
Then, for the first time in my life, my mother did not have a comeback.
She put the shopping bag down on the porch.
“Give these to them.”
“No.”
“Julia—”
“If you want to apologize, write them letters. No blame. No excuses. No ‘I’m sorry you felt.’ Then I will decide whether they’re ready to read them.”
