she wasn’t shrinking. She was watching me with a fragile, terrible hope.
That hope hurt almost as much as the footage, because it meant she had been living without certainty that I would choose her.
“Yes,” I said to my mother. “I’m making you leave.”
The explosion came quickly after that. She called Lily manipulative. Ungrateful. Weak. She said I was abandoning the woman who raised me for a wife who “couldn’t even handle motherhood without collapsing.” Noah woke up and began crying. My mother reached out automatically, as if the baby still belonged to the version of the house she controlled.
Lily recoiled.
That instinct alone was enough.
“Do not come near him,” I said.
My mother froze. Then she looked at me in a way I hadn’t seen since I was a teenager and first disagreed with her publicly—like I was no longer her son, only an obstacle. “
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