“You don’t belong here,” she said. “This house isn’t yours—it was never supposed to be. Your father took you and left me. He told you I was dead. But I am your mother.” I froze. She handed me a small bracelet engraved with my name and birthdate.
My father had lied. Out of hurt. Out of anger. He erased her from my story.The court later ruled the house was legally hers—she had lived in it, cared for it, paid for it. I packed my bags, ready to leave.
But then, she stopped me. “I don’t want you to go,” she said. “I don’t want to lose you again. Please… let’s try.” We started slowly. Cleaning.
Talking. Remembering. We were two broken people trying to mend something neither of us fully understood. But somehow, the house that divided us became a place that brought us together.She’s still Deborah to the world. But to me, she’s Mom.