About a year later, my mother appeared at my office building.
I barely recognized her.
No designer suit.
No expensive jewelry.
She looked exhausted.
“They’re foreclosing on our apartment.”
I nodded.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Hope appeared in her eyes.
“Will you help us?”
“No.”
Her face tightened.
“I’m your mother.”
“Biologically.”
She began crying.
“We made mistakes.”
“A mistake is forgetting an anniversary.”
I looked directly at her.
“Throwing a disabled sixteen-year-old onto the street is a choice.”
“Stealing her identity is a choice.”
“Returning nineteen years later only because you want one million dollars is a choice.”
“Your father is sick with worry.”
“I hope he finds peace.”
She stared at me.
“How did you become so cold?”
I almost laughed.
Instead, I answered quietly.
“Do you remember the night you threw me out?”
She didn’t respond.
“I walked two miles on crutches carrying everything I owned in a garbage bag.”
