“Mom has a huge house. When she’s gone, it will all be mine.”
I never corrected it.
Perhaps because a part of me wanted to believe that one day he would see me as his mother again.
Not as a burden.
That dream died that morning in the kitchen.
“Old people are disgusting.”
The words kept echoing in my mind.
I got up slowly.
I turned on the small desk lamp.
I took out a sheet of paper.
I didn’t intend to write a long letter.
Just one sentence.
Something Lily could read when she finally realized I was gone.
I picked up the pen.
I thought about many things.
During the years I worked double shifts to pay for her school.
On the nights I spent awake when I had a fever.
At his father’s funeral, when I promised myself that I would never let our family break apart.
The ink touched the paper.
