“Your mother divorced Eric,” he said, his voice carrying a mix of amusement and disgust. “Four months of marriage, and she’s done.
Turns out married life wasn’t for her.”
I felt nothing. Not satisfaction, not anger, not even relief. Just nothing.
“She’s been asking about you,” Dad continued carefully.
“Wants to know about the baby. She sent a letter to my house and a baby blanket. I think she crocheted it herself.”
“I don’t want the letter,” I replied slowly.
“And the blanket… please donate it to charity.”
“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” Dad replied.
She still tries to reach out sometimes. A voicemail here, a card there.
“You have to move on so I can know my grandchild,” she always says. “I’m your mother.
I have rights.”
But she doesn’t, not really.
She gave up those rights when she chose her selfish desires over her daughter’s happiness.
She gave them up when she tried to destroy my wedding out of spite, and every single time she chose herself over the people who loved her.
Some people don’t deserve another chance just because they share your blood.
Some people prove, over and over again, that they can’t be trusted with the precious things in your life.
