“My dear, you do realize that without me, you would never have succeeded, don’t you?” she told me. “It was I who made sure you were raised by this woman so that you would become a good person. I’m only asking for half of your business. That’s only fair.”
I felt like screaming.
She added: “And your car. You wouldn’t have it without me. I sacrificed my body and my youth. I chose to have you. I chose where to leave you. That choice determined your life.”
Anger flooded my body.
I thought of my mother at every important stage of my life. My mother folding my t-shirts. My mother always being there, while that other woman had disappeared.
I wanted to scream. But instead, something cold and sharp settled inside me.
I smiled.
Her eyes widened.
“You know what?” I said to him. “You’re right.”
His shoulders relaxed.
“I knew you would understand,” she replied.
“You are linked to my success,” I told her. “If you hadn’t given me life, I wouldn’t exist. So yes, I’m going to give you something. I’m going to write you a check. I’m even going to give you my car.”
Her eyes widened.
She hesitated, then went in.
“Oh, my darling,” she said. “I was so afraid you’d be ungrateful.”
“There is one condition,” I said.
She leaned towards me. “Of course. What is it?”
I opened the door.
“Come in,” I said. “We won’t do this without my mother.”
She hesitated, then went in.
Karen clenched her jaw.
My mother was sitting at the kitchen table, her hands around her cup, her face impassive.
“Mom,” I said. “This is Karen.”
Karen softened her voice.
“Grace,” she said. “Thank you for raising her. I always trusted you. I knew you would do a good job.”
“You trusted nothing,” my mother replied after taking a second to compose herself. “You abandoned an infant and you left.”
Karen clenched her jaw.
I opened the album.
“You see things your way, I see them mine,” she replied. “What matters is that we both played our part.”
I went to the library, took a photo album and placed it on the table.
Karen frowned.
“You want half of Doorstep and my car,” I said. “Because you say that was your plan.”
“Yes,” she replied. “Because I played a role in your arrival into this world.”
I opened the album.
I turned it towards Karen.
Me, a baby, in my mother’s arms.
Me, on my birthdays, holidays, my first day of school, school plays. My high school graduation. My university graduation.
My mother was there every moment. She held me in her arms. She was by my side. She was in the crowd.
I turned the album towards Karen.
“Here’s my condition,” I said. “Before I give you anything, find a photo. Just one. Any page, any year.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
I tapped through the album.
“Find a photo where you were present.”
She stared at me.
“Go ahead,” I said. “First birthday. First day of school. Any event. Any random day. Show me one time you were there.”
She turned the pages. Faster. Then slower. Then she stopped.
“That’s ridiculous,” she retorted. “I don’t need photos to prove I’m your mother. I carried you for nine months. That should be enough.”
My mother laughed once.
My mother laughed once.
I closed the album.
“No,” I replied. “It was your choice. Being a mother is all that matters after that. You weren’t there.”
She pointed at my mother.
“You think she did this all by herself?” she said. “I’m the one who put you here. I’m the one who started your story. I’m the one who chose this door.”
My mother laughed once.
“You chose to abandon a baby hoping someone else would take care of it,” she said.
“I owe you nothing.”
I watched Karen.
“You weren’t there when I was sick,” I told her. “You weren’t there for homework, plays, exams, or late nights at the office. You didn’t fold a single t-shirt. You didn’t answer any emails. She did.”
Karen crossed her arms.
“So you’re rejecting me?” she said. “You’ve succeeded, and I have nothing? You owe me something.”
“I owe you nothing,” I replied. “You made your decision 25 years ago. I’m making mine now.”
I walked to the front door and opened it.
I got up.
“You won’t get half my business,” I told him. “You won’t get my car. You won’t get money, access, or connections. If you contact me again or show up here, I will consider it harassment.”
His gaze hardened.
“You’ll regret it,” she told me. “Blood matters. One day, you’ll understand.”
I walked to the front door and opened it.
I rested my head against the wood and exhaled.
“Blood ties don’t buy you any special privileges,” I told him. “Love is what matters. Being there is what matters. And you weren’t.”
She waited until I gave in.
I did not give in.
She left.
I locked the door.
My hands were trembling. I rested my head against the wood and exhaled.
My mother started to cry.
My mother approached in a wheelchair and touched my arm.
“Isa,” she told me.
I turned around and hugged her.
“She’ll get nothing,” I told her. “No money, no credit, no place in my head.”
My mother started to cry.
“I was afraid she would come back and you would regret not having gone with her,” she whispered to me.
That evening, we sat down at the table with the photo album open.
I took a step back and looked at her.
“You were the one who opened the door,” I told her. “You were the one who welcomed me. You stayed. You are my mother. If anyone is to have their share of what I have built, it is you.”
That evening, we sat down at the table with the photo album open.
Page after page of my life. Page after page of hers.
