I took my time before answering.
I could have said no.
I could have told her that everything was forgotten and that we were fine.
That was my old habit: reassuring everyone else before I had even understood my own feelings.
But I had learned something since our first conversation.
Telling the truth wasn’t a way of punishing someone.
It was a way of allowing them to know me.
“I’m not angry in the way you might imagine,” I said. “But I was hurt. And I needed you to understand that.”
Claire nodded.
“I understand.”
“I know you never intended to hurt me. I know you were tired, too. But I was tired, Claire. And I didn’t know how to tell you.”
She turned toward me.
“Why?”
It was such a simple question.
Yet it touched something deep inside me.
Why?
Because I had grown up believing that a good mother should endure everything.
