I looked into her eyes — the same green eyes that once made my mother turn away.
“I still believe that,” I said quietly.
That afternoon, my mother asked to see me alone. She was sitting in the sunroom, wrapped in a shawl, her Bible resting on her lap.
“I don’t have much time left,” she said. “I’ve been sick for a while — heart failure, they call it. I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
I swallowed hard.
“I wish you’d told me sooner.”
She stared at her hands.
“Do you remember the night you left? I told myself I was doing the right thing — protecting the family’s name, keeping people from talking. But every year since, I’ve asked myself if I let pride steal my child.”
Tears stung my eyes.
“You did, Mom. But I still came back.”
Her voice broke.
“Can you ever forgive me?”
I reached across the table and took her trembling hand.
“I already did. I just needed you to ask.”
