Chapter 7 - The Conversation We Should Have Had Years Ago
Mom came to the beach house two weeks later.
She called first.
She asked permission.
I almost said no.
Then I said yes.
She arrived alone.
At the gate, she waited.
That small gesture told me something had shifted.
We sat on the deck overlooking the ocean.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Finally Mom said, "I was angry when your father died."
"I know."
"No. You don't."
She told me things she'd never admitted.
Dad had handled nearly everything financial.
After he died, she felt frightened and powerless.
Trevor's business became something she could fix.
So she used money.
Then one compromise became another.
She convinced herself Dad would've approved.
She convinced herself I'd never need it.
Then she began telling relatives the beach house was connected to Dad because admitting I'd built something entirely on my own made her feel unnecessary.
It wasn't an excuse.
She knew that.
"I was wrong," she said.
Not I'm sorry you felt hurt.
Not Mistakes were made.
Wrong.
The word mattered.
"I need space from you," I told her.
She cried.
But she nodded.
May you like
And for the first time, my mother's tears didn't become instructions.
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