I just wanted distance.
Still, part of me couldn’t help but wonder how they were handling it.
Then, one afternoon in June, I got my answer.
Mom showed up at my door.
I hadn’t seen her in months.
She looked smaller somehow.
Not physically, but in presence.
The kind of shrinkage that happens when pride collapses in on itself.
Her eyes were red-rimmed, her makeup uneven, her hair tied back like she hadn’t bothered much that morning.
“Felix,” she said quietly when I opened the door.
“Mom.”
We stood there for a long moment, neither of us moving.
Behind me, Lucas was on the couch watching TV.
He glanced toward the door, saw her, and froze.
I stepped outside and closed the door behind me.
“I shouldn’t be here,” she started, wringing her hands, “but I didn’t know what else to do.”
I didn’t say anything.
