A year ago, I would have caved.
Today, I simply picked off a dead leaf from my basil plant and waited.
“I guess—I guess I should have listened back in October when you said you sold the place,” she mumbled.
It wasn’t a real apology, but it was the closest thing to reality she had spoken in a year.
“Yes,” I replied calmly. “You should have.”
Another long pause.
She cleared her throat.
“Can we come over for dinner this weekend? We want to show you the photos and maybe talk.”
I looked around my quiet, tidy, perfectly peaceful condo.
I loved that my home was finally just mine, not a waiting room for family drama.
“Not this weekend, Sarah. I have plans,” I said. “Perhaps next month we can meet for coffee at that little café downtown.”
Neutral territory, a public place, a firm time limit.
“Oh, okay,” she said, sounding utterly defeated.
When we hung up, I knew our relationship wouldn’t magically heal overnight, but the dynamic had shifted permanently.
I was her mother, yes, but I was no longer her ATM, her maid, or her doormat.
A moment later, my phone pinged.
It was a picture message from Arthur. It showed his two rescue dogs fast asleep in a patch of warm sun on the farmhouse porch.
Next to them was a brand-new rocking chair.
No text, just the photo.
I smiled, locked my screen, and went back to my book.
And that’s where the story ends.