I picked up my son.
Then I turned to my mother and said something I had never said to her in my life.
“Pack a bag.”
She stared at me like I had spoken another language.
Because she didn’t believe me.
She had never needed to.
She had trained me to bend, to excuse, to soften the damage after she caused it.
“You’re throwing me out?” she demanded. “For her?”
I looked at Lily.
For the first time that day, she wasn’t shrinking.
She was watching me.
Hoping.
And somehow, that hope hurt the most, because it meant some part of her still believed I could choose correctly.
“Yes,” I said.
“I’m making you leave.”
