God, I missed her so much.
Just a few days after the funeral, there was a knock on my door. When I opened it, I froze.
It was my mother.
She looked older, gray threading through her dark hair, and lines around her eyes and mouth that hadn’t been there before. But her eyes were the same — distant and calculating.
“Please,” she whispered, gripping her purse with white-knuckled hands.
“I just need to talk to you.”
Every instinct in me screamed to shut the door and walk away. But something in her tone, something almost… defeated, made me pause.
I crossed my arms.
“Talk.”
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