I helped my mom into the backseat, blankets tucked around her like armor. Kylie helped me settle her carefully and closed the door with gentle hands.
Dennis was still shouting when we drove away, but nobody was listening anymore.
Two weeks later, she filed for divorce.
Dennis tried digging out the snow himself. From what I heard, he slipped on the porch and twisted his back. The neighborhood joked about karma. I didn’t. I wasn’t interested in jokes. I was interested in my mother getting her life back.
And she did.
In my small apartment, she healed slowly—long naps, hot tea with honey, quiet mornings where nobody barked demands at her. Every Friday, I brought her flowers. Not because she needed them, but because she deserved the reminder that she mattered.
One night, she looked at me and said, “You saved me.”
I shook my head. “I just showed up.”
She smiled—real this time. “Not everyone would’ve seen through me,” she said. “You did.”
I squeezed her hand. “You’re a terrible liar,” I told her, and for the first time in too long, she laughed like herself.
