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I couldn’t deny it—I missed her. I missed her so much that it made me furious. Furious at myself, at her, at the years that had stolen our time together. Maybe that’s why I sat there, paralyzed, my emotions waging a war inside me.
Dad and Mom had kept things cordial after the divorce, but what good did that do me? Their smiles in front of me were just masks covering the wreckage beneath. And I—I was left in the middle, a child craving a love that always seemed just out of reach.
And now, after all these years, she was standing in front of me.
The sight of her knocked the breath from my lungs.
Mom.
Her face—God, her face—was older now, the fine lines on her skin whispering tales of time I wasn’t a part of. But she was still beautiful. Too beautiful. It almost hurt to look at her, because she was a reminder of everything I had lost.
Her eyes—glistening, overflowing with emotion—locked onto mine, and for a second, I felt like that ten-year-old kid again. Small. Powerless. Wanting nothing more than to run into her arms, to feel the safety of her embrace.
But I couldn’t.
I wouldn’t.
Her lips trembled, a breath catching in her throat. "My baby," she whispered, her voice breaking like fragile glass. "Look at you…"
I swallowed hard, my fists clenching at my sides. Damn it. Damn it! Why did her voice still have the power to make my heart cave in?
Memories crashed into me like a hurricane.
I saw my father—strong, proud, unshakable—crumbling before my eyes, his hands trembling as he held the divorce papers. I had never seen him cry before that day. And though I had loved him fiercely, I couldn't deny the truth—he hadn't been the husband she needed.
Maybe that’s why he tried so hard now. Why he was so present, so doting. Maybe it was love. Maybe it was regret. Maybe it was both.
And now, here she was.
The mother I had longed for. The mother I had resented. The mother who left but never really did.
She took a hesitant step forward, her hands trembling. "Can I…" Her voice cracked, and my chest tightened. "Can I just hold you?"
A lump formed in my throat. My whole body screamed at me to move, to stay, to cry, to push her away.
I wasn’t a child anymore. I wasn’t that helpless girl watching her world fall apart.
But damn it, as her arms wrapped around me, as her scent—so familiar, so painfully familiar—filled my senses, I felt my walls begin to shatter.
And I let them.
Because maybe—just maybe—this was the beginning of something new.And in that moment, as I sank into her embrace, I realized—no matter how much time had passed, some love never faded.
Her arms wrapped around me, hesitant at first, but then desperate—like she was afraid that if she let go, I would disappear, slip through her fingers just like time had. I felt her breath trembling against my shoulder, shallow and uneven, as though she was struggling to hold herself together. She was shaking. She was breaking.
And then, in the smallest, most fragile voice, she whispered—
"I’m so sorry."
I stopped breathing.
The words cut through me like a jagged knife, sharp and merciless, slicing through every wall I had spent years building around my heart.
I wanted to laugh. I wanted to scream. I wanted to pull away and look her in the eyes and ask her if she truly believed that two words—two words—could somehow erase the years of silence, the pain, the nights I had spent curled up in bed, wondering why my own mother didn’t love me enough to stay.
My throat burned, but I forced the words out anyway, cold and bitter and laced with the kind of pain I had never dared to speak out loud.
"You left."
She flinched, but I didn’t stop.
I couldn’t stop.
My hands clenched into fists, my nails digging so hard into my palms that I swore I could feel them cutting into my skin. My chest was heaving, my heart was pounding so hard it felt like it was trying to escape from my ribcage.
"You left me, Mom." My voice cracked, and I hated how small, how vulnerable it sounded. "You walked out that door, and you never came back. You never even looked back. Do you have any idea what that did to me? Do you have any idea what it felt like to sit by the window, night after night, waiting for you? Hoping—praying—that maybe this would be the night you’d come home?"
Tears streamed down her face, her entire body trembling as she reached for me, her fingers desperate to touch, to hold, to fix what had already been shattered beyond repair.
"I know," she sobbed, shaking her head frantically. "I know, and I hate myself for it! I swear to you, I do!"
I let out a bitter, breathless laugh, one that held no humor, only the weight of every broken piece of me that I had never allowed anyone to see.
"Hate yourself?" I repeated, my voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. I swallowed hard, shaking my head as I took a slow, staggering step backward, out of her reach. "You don’t get to hate yourself. You weren’t the one left behind. You weren’t the one who had to learn how to live without a mother."
She let out a choked sob, her hands flying to her mouth like she was trying to keep the sound from escaping, as if hiding her pain would somehow make up for mine. But it was too late. The silence we had lived in for years had already been shattered, and there was no taking it back now.
Her hands dropped, her lips trembling as she forced herself to speak through the tears. "I thought I was doing what was best for you."
The words hit me harder than I expected.
I blinked at her, my entire body going still for a moment, before something inside me snapped.
"Best for me?!" My voice was suddenly louder, raw, unfiltered, filled with years of heartbreak and resentment. I shook my head in disbelief, my hands trembling at my sides. "You really think leaving me was best for me? You think disappearing without a word, without a goodbye, without even looking me in the eyes and telling me why—you think that was the right thing to do?!"
Her face twisted in agony, fresh tears pouring down her cheeks, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop.
"You shattered me!" I forced the words out, my breathing uneven, my vision blurring. "You left me to pick up the pieces of a life I didn’t even break, and you never even looked back! You never even checked to see if I was okay!"
She was openly sobbing now, her hands shaking, her entire body looking like it might collapse under the weight of her own guilt. She tried to step forward again, but I took another step back, my body still screaming at me to run, to protect myself, to never let her get close enough to hurt me again.
But then she whispered, so soft, so broken—"I was a coward."
I sucked in a sharp breath.
She swallowed hard, her voice trembling. "I was scared. And I made the biggest mistake of my life."
I wanted to say something—anything—but my throat felt like it was closing up, my emotions choking me, trapping me in a storm I didn’t know how to escape from.
She inhaled shakily, her eyes locked onto mine, pleading. "I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t deserve it. But please… please, just let me hold you. Just for a moment."
I felt my heart clench so hard it physically hurt.
I should have walked away. I should have let my anger win. I should have held onto the resentment, the pain, the shield I had spent years building.
But when I looked at her—at her tear-streaked face, at the desperation in her eyes, at the way she looked so much smaller than I remembered—I felt something inside me crack.
I had spent years convincing myself I didn’t need her. That I was fine. That I had moved on.
But I had lied.
I was still that ten-year-old kid, sitting by the window, waiting for her mom to come home.
My breath hitched. I gritted my teeth, my whole body screaming at me to hold onto my anger.
But instead—against all logic, against all the pain—I stepped forward.
She let out a gasping sob as I finally, finally, let my arms wrap around her. She clung to me instantly, her fingers grasping at my back, holding onto me like she was afraid that if she let go, she would lose me all over again. She was shaking violently, whispering apologies into my shoulder over and over again, her breath warm and frantic against my skin.
"I love you, I love you, I love you," she cried, like if she said it enough times, it might undo the past.
I wasn’t sure if I was ready to say it back.
Maybe I wasn’t ready to forgive. Maybe I never would be.
But in that moment, as I stood in the arms of the woman who had broken me, I realized something—some wounds never fully heal.
But maybe… just maybe, love was enough to start the process.
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