I closed my eyes.
I remembered asking her to watch Maya for two hours during a work deadline years earlier. She had said she couldn’t be expected to rearrange her life because I had chosen to become a mother.
I remembered sending her rent money that same month.
“I wasn’t asking you to admire my income,” I said. “I was asking you to care about my daughter.”
“Those are separate issues.”
“They should have been.”
I ended the call.
The hardest part of cutting off the money was discovering how often I had used giving to manage my own fear.
When the accountant sent the full summary, I couldn’t finish reading it in one sitting.
Each payment carried a memory.
A tense conversation softened by a transfer.
A holiday invitation after I covered an expense.
A rare compliment from Dad after I paid a bill he hadn’t wanted to discuss.
