Mom’s mouth tightened.
Then she did what she always did. She softened.
“Oh, Jessie.” She moved closer. “You’re sick. You’re hurt. And now strangers are filling your head with ugly things. Your father—Hank—loved you. I loved you. We used that money to survive.”
“For twenty-five years?”
“We fed you.”
“I paid for my own college.”
“After we raised you.”
“With my money.”
She flinched.
“Do you know what you sound like?” she asked. “So cold. So transactional.”
I almost smiled.
Love sounded like a calculator, but only when she held it.
“You took the trust,” I said. “You took the emergency account. You took my salary for years.”
“I am your mother.”
“No. You are a person who stole from me.”
Her eyes filled.
“You would destroy me over money?”
“You destroyed me for it.”
The tears stopped.
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