“What, baby?”
“I think I’m going to be okay.”
She reached across the table and put her hand on mine. Her fingers were warm from the mug.
She didn’t say anything else.
She didn’t have to.
My mother has never once in her life needed more than two sentences to say exactly the right thing.
Outside the window, the parking lot was mostly empty. A truck pulled in, headlights sweeping across the wall. Somewhere down the hall, someone was watching a game show with the volume up too loud.
The tea wasn’t good, but it was hot.
And my mom made it.
And my dad was snoring three feet away.
And nobody in that room had ever forged my name or lied about my worth or made me feel like I needed to be smaller.
That place card is still on my nightstand.
The gold keeps flaking off.
I haven’t thrown it away, but these days when I look at it, it doesn’t sting.
It just reminds me what I’m worth.
For the first time in I don’t know how long, my jaw wasn’t clenched.
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