Fallon
The simplicity of her response lights a fire in my chest, anger flaring hot and immediate. She makes it sound like she had no agency, no choice in any of it. As if abandoning us was as inevitable as the tide.
“No,” I say, the word sharp enough to cut glass. “You got clean. You learned how to be a mother. You chose when to start trying.” I gesture toward the twins. “And you waited until we were old enough not to matter anymore.”
Rebecca flinches as if I’ve slapped her. For a moment, I glimpse the woman beneath the careful maternal performance, worn, watchful, carrying something heavy that never fully leaves her.
“You should rest; you need to save your strength,” she says after a long pause, nodding toward a nearby bench in the shade. The abrupt shift in conversation throws me mom
