“Tom,” I said softly, “what life do you think I’ve been living?”
“The one you should’ve had, Mom. If you weren’t always taking care of me…”
“You weren’t the reason my life stayed small,” I said. “You were the reason it was full.”
Tom’s face changed in that slow, pained way people’s do when a belief they’ve carried too long starts cracking.
“I did not lose my life because I raised you,” I told him. “I chose my life, Tom. Over and over. I chose you because I wanted you. Being your mother was never the thing that kept me from living.”
His mouth trembled. “I just didn’t want to keep costing you.”
“You never cost me my life, dear. You gave it shape.”
“You weren’t the reason my life stayed small.”
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Tom’s shoulders dropped. He covered his eyes with one hand, and I stepped forward and held him the way I had when he was small.
After a long minute, he said, “I’m sorry, Mom.”
“Don’t apologize for loving me badly when all you were trying to do was protect me.”
He gave a wet, embarrassed laugh. “You found me fast.”
“I know what you think. That’s what mothers do.”
Tom glanced toward the yard office. “I took a job here. Rented a room over the feed store.”
“You can tell me on the drive home,” I said.
“Home?”
I slipped the watch into his shirt pocket. “You don’t give love back by leaving. You bring it with you.”
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
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