I remembered the stories.
My mother telling me:
“He doesn’t care about you.”
“He chose to leave.”
“He never sent anything.”
“He started another family.”
“He forgot you.”
I had believed her.
Because I was a child.
What else could I have believed?
I started crying.
Not because I suddenly missed a father I barely remembered.
But because I realized there had been an entire version of my childhood that had been stolen from me.
My mother had not merely been cruel.
She had controlled the story.
She had decided what I was allowed to know.
And now, after all these years, the truth was finally coming out.
But there was still one question.
Why?
Why had she done all of this?
Why had she treated Brent differently?
Why had she always protected him?
Why had my children become the target of her resentment?
I called Brent.
He answered on the first ring.
