The second meeting with my mother happened two weeks later, this time at her small apartment across town rather than neutral coffee shop territory, a decision I made deliberately, wanting to see the life she'd actually built rather than a version curated for public conversation.
It was smaller than I expected, tidier too, framed photographs on nearly every surface that made my chest tighten uncomfortably once I recognized several of them. School pictures I didn't remember being taken. A photo from my university graduation, taken from a distance, clearly without my knowledge.
"You've been watching me," I said, my voice sharper than I intended. "This whole time."
"Not watching," she said carefully. "Checking, occasionally, through people who knew your father, whenever the guilt got loud e
