My mother’s actions had shifted something between us, a silent rupture that couldn’t be easily mended.
As the silence stretched on, I struggled to find the right words.
My daughter, still young and innocent, didn’t understand the complexities of adult relationships and their silent battles.
I wanted to shield her from the disappointment, to reassure her that her efforts were not in vain.
Yet, the words stuck in my throat, blocked by the weight of my own resentment and confusion.
“Mom,” I finally managed, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Why did you do that?”
Her gaze was steady, her expression unreadable.
“They weren’t suitable,” she replied, as if that was explanation enough.
“Not suitable?” I echoed, incredulous.
