“That’s who Mom is,” I said.
“She makes everything a transaction.”
He nodded, then pulled out his phone. “I have the pictures Grandma sent, if you want to see them?”
We spent the next hour looking at photos of a life intersected but separate. Grandma had documented everything for him, creating a bridge across the chasm our mother had dug between us.
“I always wanted a sibling,” Jason said quietly.
“I used to beg for a brother or sister. Mom always said she couldn’t have more children after me. Another lie.”
“You know,” I said, pushing my empty coffee cup aside, “we can’t change the past.
But we can decide what happens next.”
He nodded, a tentative smile crossing his face. “I’d like to know my sister, if that’s okay with you.”
For the first time in over two decades, I let myself feel something I never thought I’d have again — a connection to family that wasn’t built on obligation or pity.
“I’d like that,” I said. “I’d like that very much.”
Over the next few weeks, we talked more.
I told him about my life, about how Grandma raised me, and how I spent years wondering if he ever thought of me.
And he told me about our mother. About how she had always been controlling, suffocating, and never allowed him to make his own choices.
We met at a park on a crisp autumn day, walking along paths covered in fallen leaves.
“Mom’s been calling me nonstop,” he said.
“Showing up at my apartment. She even contacted my work.”
“That sounds like her. When she wants something, she doesn’t stop.”
“She always acted like the perfect mom, Rebecca.
I thought she was just overprotective, but now I realize… she’s just selfish. Everything has always been about her image, her comfort, and her needs.”
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