Months later, Barbara sat in my kitchen on an ordinary afternoon.
Chloe was sleeping nearby.
The apartment was small, slightly cluttered, and completely mine.
My bills.
My decisions.
My responsibility.
My peace.
Barbara bent down and picked up one of Chloe’s tiny socks.
“I spent years thinking you weren’t good enough for my son,” she said.
I raised an eyebrow.
“That is an interesting confession to make in my kitchen.”
She laughed.
“I know.”
Then she looked toward Chloe.
“Now I wonder whether my son was ever good enough for you.”
I smiled.
Not because Eric had suddenly become someone else.
He hadn’t.
He was still learning.
Still uncertain.
Still trying to build a relationship with a daughter he had ignored when she needed him most.
But I had stopped begging him to care.
Barbara had stopped protecting him from the consequences when he didn’t.
And Chloe was getting stronger.
