Three weeks after the court hearing, Mom returned to my property.
Alone.
No truck.
No furniture.
No grandchildren.
She stood outside the front gate wearing jeans and a beige sweater.
She looked smaller than I remembered.
She pressed the intercom once.
I answered.
“Yes?”
“Can we talk?”
“We’re talking.”
She closed her eyes for a second.
“You’re really going to do this through a speaker?”
“Yes.”
She looked toward the house.
“I need help.”
I already knew.
Her apartment management had given her a deadline.
Lauren’s family had damaged several things while staying there, and Mom was behind on rent.
“How much?”
“I’m not asking for money.”
That surprised me.
Then she added:
“I may need somewhere to stay temporarily.”
There it was.
The same request.
Different person.
“You can’t stay here.”
Her eyes widened.
“Emma, please.”
“No.”
“I’m not Lauren.”
“I know.”
“I’m your mother.”
