She arrived alone.
No lawyer.
No demands.
I was repairing a fence.
She stood beside her SUV.
“Rebecca.”
I put down the hammer.
“Mom.”
She looked older.
Smaller.
For the first time, I noticed how tired she was.
“Can we talk?”
I nodded.
We sat on my porch.
Patch had gone gray around the muzzle.
He lay between us.
For several minutes, my mother said nothing.
Then she asked.
“Do you hate me?”
“No.”
The answer surprised her.
“Why not?”
“I did.”
“For a while.”
“What changed?”
“I got tired.”
She looked down.
“I thought I was protecting Lily.”
“From me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because every time she asked about you, she cried.”
“That was not a reason to erase me.”
“I know.”
She started crying.
I waited.
“I was angry.”
She continued.
“At you.”
“At Cole.”
“At myself.”
“At your father for dying.”
“At Dad for leaving you that land.”
