“Hey, Mom,” I said, forcing a smile.
She frowned. “Oh!
You’re here.”
My chest tightened, but I swallowed the hurt and reached into my pocket. I pulled out a small, slightly crumpled handmade card. I had spent hours on it, carefully folding the paper, writing “I Love You, Mom” in my neatest handwriting on the front.
Inside, I had drawn a picture of our family — me, my mother, my stepfather, my baby brother, and my grandmother.
I had colored it with the few markers I had, making sure to give everyone a smile. Because that’s how I wanted us to be… a real, happy family.
With hopeful eyes, I extended it toward her.
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“I made this for you.”
She barely glanced at it before passing it to my brother. “Here, honey. Something for you.”
I froze.
That gift wasn’t for him. It was from me to my mother.
“I-I got that for you.”
She waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, what would I need it for?
I have everything I want.”
Everything. Except me.
Years of neglect hung between us. My grandmother shot me a sympathetic glance, but I forced a smile.
I wouldn’t let them see me break.
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