I didn’t.
Not completely.
But fear is contagious.
I picked up the suitcase.
“Where am I supposed to go?”
She pressed folded cash into my hand.
One $180.
“There’s a motel near your work.”
“Mom—”
“Go.”
I stepped onto the porch.
She hugged me suddenly.
Hard. Too hard.
“I love you,” she whispered.
Then she pushed me away.
“Don’t come back tomorrow.”
She locked the door.
I stood there crying on the porch.
For 13 years, I had watched my mother choose silence.
That night, I thought she’d finally chosen Richard over me completely.
I checked into a motel.
The room smelled like cigarettes even though the sign said “NON-SMOKING.”
I cried until after midnight.
At some point, Noah, a guy I worked with, texted asking if I was okay because I’d been quiet during closing.
I almost told him.
Instead, I wrote, “Family stuff.”
The next morning, I went to work because I didn’t know what else to do.
