Because after nearly losing me, she wanted me close.
I went anyway.
That mattered.
For the first time, neither Richard nor Mom’s fear decided where I lived.
Mom started therapy.
Real therapy.
Not church counseling with someone who knew Richard socially.
Not conversations with friends who said marriage was hard.
A licensed therapist who specialized in domestic abuse.
She learned words for things we’d treated as normal.
Coercive control. Financial abuse. Intimidation. Isolation.
I started therapy too.
I learned something I didn’t expect.
I was angrier at Mom than I was at Richard.
My therapist said that wasn’t unusual.
Richard behaved exactly like the person he’d shown himself to be.
Mom was supposed to be the safe one.
She wasn’t.
That betrayal sat differently.
We’re working on it.
Slowly.
Last week marked one year since that birthday.
Mom came over to my apartment.
She brought pizza.
No birthday cake.
No mention of Richard.
