The boxes of cash were her savings. The clean house was a house without the man she’d loved. The distance wasn’t because she didn’t want to come home—it was because she couldn’t bear to face me and pretend everything was okay.
“All this time,” I whispered, “I thought you were alive and well—and I was jealous of your money. I was lonely. I cried every Christmas because you weren’t there. And you… you were grieving alone.”
She reached for my hand. “I’m sorry, Mom. I thought I was protecting you.”
