Chapter 7 - THE FIRST TIME I SAW MOM AGAIN
I was seventeen when I chose to see my mother.
Not because she demanded it.
She had stopped asking.
That mattered.
She had completed her custodial sentence and was living under supervision.
No social media involving children.
No monetized parenting content.
She worked at a warehouse fulfillment center.
Irony was not lost on anyone.
For years, packages had arrived because of me.
Now she packed boxes belonging to other people.
The meeting happened at a therapist's office.
Rachel drove me.
“Want me inside?”
“No.”
“Want me outside?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
I entered alone.
Mom stood when she saw me.
She had aged.
Of course she had.
So had I.
For years, the version of her in my head had remained thirty-something, phone raised.
Now there were gray strands near her temples.
She opened her arms instinctively.
Then stopped.
“Can I hug you?”
I stared.
“No.”
Her arms dropped.
“Okay.”
That might have been the first moment I believed change was possible.
Not because she asked.
Because she accepted no.
We sat.
For several minutes, nobody spoke.
Then Mom said:
“You look…”
She stopped.
“Like what?”
“I was going to say beautiful.”
“You can.”
She smiled sadly.
“You're beautiful.”
“Thanks.”
Silence.
Then I asked:
“Why the dog bowl?”
She closed her eyes.
“I don't know.”
“You do.”
She nodded.
“I thought it would get views.”
There.
No story about discipline.
No Darren.
No algorithm as an evil spirit possessing her.
Views.
“Did you think about what I'd feel?”
“Not enough.”
“Did you know I was hungry?”
“Yes.”
That hurt.
I had imagined maybe she convinced herself.
Maybe she believed I ate earlier.
No.
She knew.
“Why didn't you feed me?”
“Because once I started filming, finishing the video felt important.”
I stared.
“More important than me?”
Her face collapsed.
“In that moment, yes.”
Truth can hurt and heal at the same time.
I cried.
Mom cried.
Neither comforted the other.
Good.
Then:
“Do you love me?”
She answered immediately.
“Yes.”
“That makes it worse.”
“I know.”
I believed both.
That was adulthood beginning.
Understanding that love is not proof of safety.
Mom reached into her bag.
“There's something I want to give you.”
My body tensed.
“No camera.”
Her face broke.
“Never again.”
She pulled out a small metal key.
“What?”
“The storage unit company found one final locker under an old sub-account.”
My stomach dropped.
“What was in it?”
“Your things.”
Boxes.
Not donations.
Mine.
School drawings.
Birthday cards.
Books.
The pink sweater I thought I'd lost.
Letters from Rachel that Mom never gave me.
And three journals.
My journals.
I went cold.
“You read them?”
“Yes.”
I almost stood.
“I am sorry.”
“You had no right.”
“I know.”
“Did you post them?”
“No.”
“How do I know?”
“You don't.”
That answer kept me seated.
She didn't demand trust.
“I gave the boxes to your attorney.”
Good.
“You can decide what happens.”
I wiped my face.
Then asked:
“Why didn't you throw them away?”
Mom looked at the floor.
“Because even when I was using you, part of me knew there was a version of you that belonged only to you.”
I hated that sentence.
Loved it.
Hated loving any part.
Recovery is inconvenient.
When I left, Rachel stood in the parking lot.
“Well?”
I shrugged.
“Complicated.”
May you like
She hugged me because this time I asked first.
---
