That sentence explained most of my childhood.
Not an excuse.
Explain.
Mom had spent 13 years trying to control danger by keeping it quiet.
Agreeing. Apologizing.
Making herself smaller. Making me smaller too.
This time, she finally tried to act.
She just did it in the only way she knew.
I said, “You should’ve called the police years ago.”
She started crying harder.
“I know.”
“You should’ve defended me.”
“I know.”
“You let them treat me like garbage.”
“I know.”
I hated seeing her hurt. I also needed to say it.
Because saving me once did not erase 13 years.
She whispered, “I thought staying kept a roof over your head.”
I looked at her.
“It also kept him over my head.”
She closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
That was the first time I’d heard my mother admit it without explaining herself.
Just yes.
Richard’s funeral was small.
I didn’t go.
Mom did.
