Later that evening, after dinner, I found my mother in the living room, her eyes focused on the television but clearly lost in thought. I approached her, the document folded neatly in my hand.
“Mom, can we talk about this?” I asked, holding up the paper as if it were a fragile truce.
She muted the TV and turned to face me, her expression unreadable. “I thought it was time you knew,” she said simply, as if that explained everything.
“But why now? And why these changes?” I pressed, my voice steady.
She sighed and gestured for me to sit down. “Things have changed, dear. I wish they hadn’t, but they have,” she said, her words carrying a hint of sadness.
We sat in silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken words filling the space between us. I could feel the fracture in our relationship, a small crack that threatened to widen.
“I just need to understand,” I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper.
She nodded, her eyes softening. “I know. And I promise to explain everything. But it’s not just about the money. It’s about preparing for the future, in ways I hadn’t considered before.”
Her words hung in the air, leaving me with more questions than answers. I knew this conversation was far from over.
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