“She didn’t.”
“You didn’t intend to humiliate her.”
“I didn’t.”
“Dad didn’t intend to make it worse by laughing.”
“He was uncomfortable.”
“And nobody ever intends anything. Yet somehow the same people get hurt over and over.”
Mom’s eyes filled with tears.
I hated that.
Not because I thought the tears were fake.
They weren’t.
My mother loved me.
That was part of what made everything so difficult.
People imagine harmful families as places with no love.
That’s usually too simple.
Love can exist beside favoritism.
Care can exist beside cowardice.
A parent can adore you and still sacrifice your well-being to protect the child who creates the most chaos.
Mom whispered, “I never meant to make you feel less important.”
“But you did.”
“Ian…”
“You did.”
She cried quietly.
I pulled out the chair across from her and sat down.
“You remember my thirtieth birthday?”
