Three months later, she was gone. A stroke in her sleep. “Peaceful and a blessing, truly,” the doctor said.
I was 32 when I buried her. My mother came with her family, but I never saw any regret in her eyes.
The house felt empty without my grandmother. God, I missed her so much.
There was a knock at my door a few days after the funeral. When I opened it, I froze.
She was my mother.
She looked older, with gray hairs mingling with her dark hair. But her gaze was the same: distant and calculating.
“Please,” he murmured. “I just need to talk to you.”
I crossed my arms. “Speak.”
She exclaimed, lowering her gaze before meeting mine. “Your brother knows about you.”
My breath caught in my throat. “What do you mean?”
“Before she died, your grandmother sent him a message. And she told him everything.”
He was too young to remember you, Rebecca. And I… I didn’t let your grandmother tell him about you. I told her that if she did, he’d never see her again.
“You had a family,” I interrupted. “You decided I wasn’t part of it.”
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