She reminded her son of moments he had long forgotten: the late nights she stayed up helping with homework after working a full day; the weeks she quietly skipped lunch so he could attend baseball camp; the winter she repaired her shoes with glue so his would be new.
She didn’t accuse him. She didn’t scold or reprimand. She simply described how she had felt at the wedding—how small, how misplaced, how invisible.
“I don’t need gratitude, Michael. I never did. But yesterday made me realize you don’t see me—not as a parent, not even as a person. I hope one day you will. Until then, I think it’s best we take some space.”
Michael reread it until he couldn’t anymore. When he shared it with Emma, she brushed it off.
“She’s probably just tired,” she said, turning back toward her breakfast tray. “Weddings are emotional.”
But Michael felt something shift inside him—a quiet but powerful recognition that he had failed to honor the person who had given him everything she had.
The Long Road Back
In the weeks that followed, Michael tried calling. Linda didn’t answer. His texts stayed unread. Holidays came and went with careful, polite exchanges. Emma said the tension was uncomfortable. Michael felt the weight of it every day.
Finally, on a gray morning in January, he drove to Sacramento without calling first. When Linda opened the door, she looked surprised, but not upset.
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