When the car disappeared at the end of the street, I turned and went upstairs.
My mother was waiting inside.
The food had gone cold.
She stood near the dining table, eyes red, hands clenched tightly in front of her apron.
“Mia,” she said.
I closed the door behind me.
For a moment, we looked at each other across the little apartment.
Then she whispered, “Did I do something wrong?”
The question should have angered me.
Instead, it exhausted me.
I took off my coat and placed it on the chair.
“You lied to me.”
Her face crumpled.
“I only wanted you to talk.”
“I know.”
“I thought if you saw each other…”
“I know.”
“I didn’t want you to regret it later.”
I looked at her.
Regret.
Another word people liked to hand to women before they left, as if regret were proof that staying had
