The girl curled in the back seat with a jacket beneath her head.
The girl checking every lock twice.
The girl looking at passing headlights and hoping one set might belong to somebody coming for her.
I closed my eyes.
When I opened them, my voice was steady.
“You were my mother.”
Mom said nothing.
“You weren’t supposed to wait for the homeless nineteen-year-old to manage your guilt for you.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I didn’t know what to do.”
“You could have opened the door.”
She started crying.
For years, that would have destroyed me.
Seeing Mom cry automatically meant I had gone too far.
It meant I needed to apologize.
Fix it.
Soften what I said.
Take responsibility for her feelings.
But this time I simply watched.
Eventually, she whispered:
“I’m sorry.”
I believed she might mean it.
That didn’t mean I opened the gate.
