“Mom, you were working to support us.”
“I know that now.”
Her voice trembled.
“But back then, I hated feeling that someone else could give you the attention I couldn’t always provide.”
“So you pushed her away?”
“Gradually. I called less often. Then I missed a visit. Eventually, so much time passed that I didn’t know how to reconnect.”
I looked at the photograph again.
For most of my life, I’d believed Mom had somehow handled those difficult years entirely on her own.
She’d let me believe it because she wanted me to remember her as capable and independent.
“Mom,” I said gently, “needing help didn’t make you a bad mother.”
She wiped her eyes.
“I wish I’d understood that sooner.”
I wanted to ask more questions.
But suddenly, Mom leaned forward and gripped the edge of the table.
“Mom?”
She closed her eyes.
“I’m feeling dizzy.”
hurried to her side.
“That’s enough. We’re going to the hospital.”
