“I remember.”
“I worked two jobs.”
“I remember that too.”
“I never wanted you to feel responsible.”
“But I did.”
“Why?”
Rowan laughed softly.
“Because every month I heard you at the kitchen table saying everything would be fine.”
Selina’s expression broke slightly.
“I was nine, Mom. Kids know when adults are pretending.”
She whispered, “I thought I was protecting you.”
There it was again.
Protecting.
Dad and I exchanged a look.
Apparently it was a family disease.
For the next hour, nobody raised their voice.
They didn’t need to.
Rowan told his mother that being her son could no longer mean becoming responsible for every crisis.
Selina listened.
Sometimes defensively.
Sometimes badly.
But she listened.
Then she surprised me.
“I’m sorry about the hospital.”
The room quieted.
She looked directly at me.
“I was frightened about the bank call. Rowan was frightened. And I made your labor seem less important because I wanted my son beside me.”
Her eyes filled.
“That was selfish.”
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