Your children.
Your babies.
The ones you rocked through fevers, drove to soccer practice, waited up for, prayed over, defended, fed, forgave. Part of you wants to open the door and collapse into them. Part of you wants one of them to say, “Mom, I’m sorry,” and mean it so fully that the last ten years fall away.
Then Michael pounds on the door like he owns it.
The feeling passes.
You open the door but do not invite them in.
Laura removes her sunglasses. “Mom.”
“Laura.”
Stephanie looks past you into the cottage. “This is where you’re living?”
“It is.”
Michael says, “We need to talk.”
You nod. “There’s a café down the street.”
His eyes narrow. “We can talk inside.”
“No.”
Three faces change at once.
They are not used to your no.
At the café, you choose a corner table. Your children sit across from you like a board of directors preparing to remove a failing CEO. Laura orders sparkling water. Michael orders coffee. Stephanie says she cannot possibly eat.
You order soup.
Michael starts first.
“Mom, this has gone too far.”
You dip your spoon into the bowl. “Has it?”
“Yes. Selling the house, changing legal documents, hiding from us. It’s not normal.”
“What part bothers you most?”
He blinks. “What?”
“The house, the legal documents, or the hiding?”
Laura leans forward. “We were worried.”
“Were you?”
Her eyes fill instantly. “That’s not fair.”
“No,” you say softly. “Christmas wasn’t fair.”
Stephanie wipes her cheek. “We said we were sorry.”
“You said things got busy.”
“We have lives, Mom.”
“So do I.”
They stare at you.
Four small words.
So do I.
