Chapter 12 - WHAT MOM WAS REALLY TRYING TO SAVE
The first direct conversation happened in January.
Neutral office.
Separate attorneys nearby.
No Travis.
Mom looked smaller in person.
Not sick.
Older.
She had moved into the apartment.
Sold several pieces of furniture because they did not fit.
The dining table Dad built went into storage.
That seemed to hurt her most.
She looked at me.
“I know you hate me.”
“No.”
That surprised her.
“I don’t know what I feel.”
Mom’s eyes filled.
“I was terrified.”
“I know.”
“The house was all I had left of your father.”
“You had me.”
She looked down.
“And Travis.”
There it was again.
I almost stood.
Mom raised one hand.
“I know how that sounds.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
She took a breath.
“Your brother started falling apart after your father died.”
Dad died when Travis was twenty-two.
He quit community college.
Started businesses.
Borrowed.
Failed.
Started again.
Mom interpreted every attempt as resilience.
I interpreted some of them as refusal to accept limits.
“He reminded me of your father,” she said.
“He doesn’t remind me of Dad.”
“Not the responsibility.”
At least she knew.
“The dreaming. Your father always wanted to build something.”
“And you kept funding Travis because it felt like keeping Dad’s ambition alive.”
Mom started crying.
“Yes.”
There it was.
Not a complete excuse.
A motive.
“And me?”
Mom wiped her face.
“You never needed me.”
The sentence landed like an object.
I leaned forward.
“I did.”
“You had your job. Your apartment. Your plans.”
“I was your daughter.”
“I know.”
“No, Mom.”
My voice broke.
“You made my competence mean I wasn’t allowed to need anything.”
She stared.
I continued.
“When Travis had a problem, you moved toward him. When I had one, you told me I’d figure it out.”
Mom closed her eyes.
“That’s true.”
“And Room 412?”
“I thought if we saved NorthSound, Travis could finally stabilize.”
“So you were saving him.”
“Yes.”
“And the house.”
“Yes.”
“What did Dr. Thorne want?”
“His investment.”
“And Travis?”
“His company.”
I looked at her.
“What was I protecting?”
Mom didn’t answer.
I did.
“You.”
That silenced her.
“I was driving to the hospital prepared to spend nearly every liquid dollar I had because I thought my mother needed surgery.”
Mom sobbed.
I didn’t reach for her.
Not as punishment.
Because comforting her would have turned the meeting back into what it had always been.
Mom hurts.
Shannon fixes it.
I stayed in my chair.
Mom eventually whispered:
“I don’t know how to undo this.”
“You don’t.”
She looked up.
May you like
I continued.
“You do the next thing honestly.”
