Months later, Barbara sat at my kitchen table while Chloe slept nearby.
My apartment was tiny and cluttered, but every bill was mine, every decision was mine, and no one could empty my account and call it freedom anymore.
“I spent years thinking you weren’t good enough for my son.”
Barbara bent down and picked up one of Chloe’s tiny socks.
“I spent years thinking you weren’t good enough for my son.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“That’s a lovely thing to admit in my kitchen.”
Barbara laughed.
“I know.”
Not because Eric had changed overnight.
“And?”
She rolled the little sock between her fingers and looked toward Chloe.
“Now I’m wondering whether my son was ever good enough for you.”
I smiled.
Not because Eric had changed overnight.
Because I had stopped begging him to care, and Barbara had stopped saving him from the consequences when he didn’t.
