she had already curled her silver hair, buttoned her cardigan, and packed everything she thought she might need.
Medication list.
Insurance card.
Phone charger.
A paperback she probably wouldn’t read.
And because she was my mother, a slice of homemade banana bread wrapped in foil for Vanessa.
Vanessa had once casually mentioned liking it.
Mom remembered.
Vanessa never even looked at the foil packet on the kitchen counter.
Instead, she looked at me.
“You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“You make your mother’s problems my problems.”
The words hung between us.
For fifteen years, I had defended Vanessa in my own mind.
She was stressed.
She was ambitious.
She had a difficult childhood.
She wasn’t naturally affectionate.
She was under pressure from the boutique.
There was always an explanation.
Always another excuse I could build around her behavior so I wouldn’t have to call it what it was.
Cruelty.
Something
