When I heard the soft knock on my door, I knew for sure that it was mom. The knock was hesitant, like she already knew she still wasn’t welcome in my room or my life.
I didn’t bother looking up. I kept scrolling through my phone, sprawled out on the bed like I didn’t have a single care in the world. Like I hadn’t already rehearsed a dozen ways I wanted this conversation to go.
"Sweetheart," she said, cracking the door open. "Can I come in for a second?"
I shrugged. “It’s your house.”
She stepped inside, clutching her little overnight bag like she didn’t know where to put her hands. Her nails were fresh — glossy nude polish, probably done to match her honeymoon outfit. She looked perfect. Always did. Even when she was walking out on her marriage for the millionth time, she made sure to
