Fear.
Then she climbed into the minivan and slammed the door so hard the whole vehicle rocked.
My mother lingered behind.
She stood at the edge of the driveway with her purse clutched against her stomach, looking smaller than she had that morning and somehow more dangerous for it.
“Amanda,” she said quietly, “don’t make this permanent.”
I was exhausted. My hands smelled like cardboard and wet grass. My house behind me felt violated, waiting to be cleaned, reclaimed, made mine again.
“It became permanent when you told me to leave my own home.”
“I’m your mother.”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s what made it worse.”
Her mouth trembled, but no apology came. Only expectation.
When I did not offer forgiveness, she turned and walked toward Melissa’s minivan.
I watched them drive away.
The street became quiet again.
Mrs. Alvarez approached after the police left, carrying a foil-covered casserole like she had been waiting years for this level of neighborhood drama.
“I made too much,” she said.
I looked at the casserole, then at her.
She shrugged. “Also, I heard everything.”
