She looked at me then, eyes bright with something like regret.
“You were right to go,” she said. “You were right to get out. To make your own account. Your own life. That’s what we were supposed to want for you.”
I stared at her, my rehearsed speeches turning to dust in my mouth. I’d prepared for defensiveness, for blame, for manipulation. I had not prepared for this.
“I’m not saying this to make you feel guilty,” she added quickly. “I don’t… expect forgiveness. I just… didn’t want my last chapter, whenever it comes, to be written with that story. The one where you’re the villain.”
I took a step closer to the bed.
“I’m not a villain,” I said quietly.
“I know,” she replied. “You’re my daughter.”
The word “my” felt different this time. Less possession. More connection.
“I can’t give you back the years,” she said. “Or the money. God, I wish I could. I can’t undo Lily’s trip that never happened, or the way we made you feel like a supporting character in your own life. All I can do is tell you I see it now. And that if you ever… wanted to try again, I’d like the chance to know you. Not just use you.”
Tears spilled over before I could stop them.
“Why now?” I asked. It came out harsher than I meant. “Why did it take a heart scare and three years of silence to get here?”
“Because I’m stubborn,” she said. “Because I was raised to believe parents are always right and kids should be grateful no matter what. Because admitting you hurt someone you love is harder than pretending they hurt you.”
She gave a small, self-deprecating smile.
“And because you scared the hell out of me,” she added. “Little Emma, the reliable one, cutting us off? It forced me to look at myself. I didn’t like what I saw.”
I stood there, torn between the urge to curl against her like I had as a child and the impulse to bolt.
Dr. Patel’s question echoed in my head.
Do you imagine them in your future?
I’d always assumed the answer was all or nothing. Reconcile fully or walk away completely. Now, staring at my mother in a hospital bed, I realized there might be another option.
Something in between.
“I can’t forget,” I said. “Not yet. Maybe not ever. I needed you at my graduation. You were at the airport. That… doesn’t just evaporate.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m not asking you to.”
“But,” I continued, taking another small step closer, “I don’t want your story to end with us on opposite sides of the world, either. So… maybe we can start with something simple.”
