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She’s so polite, I’m not used to this. It’s disarming. I came here ready for a fight, ready to confront her for everything she did to me and for everything she allowed to happen to me. But now? Now I can’t. And I don’t know if I’m mad that this too was taken from me or relieved that I don’t have to bring up the past and all of its sordid details.

She eats with slow, measured bites, as if it hurts to swallow. “Where do you go to college?”

“Riggins.”

“That’s a good school. When is your graduation again?”

“Less than two months, May seventeen.”

She’s pensive. “May? I guess I won’t make it, then.”

“What do you mean?”

“The doctors gave me a month, maybe six weeks, if I’m lucky. I’ve never been lucky.” She attempts a laugh, but it sounds like a cry and turns into a coughing fit. She covers her mouth with a napkin, her frail body convulsing with each attempt to draw breath.

I come around to her side, hesitate, step closer and rub her back, as gentle as I can. Tears blur my vision. Why? Why is this upsetting to me? This woman who I have not seen in four years. This woman who was never a mother to me. This woman who never loved me or cared for me. And yet I cry for her. Knowing that she’ll die in a few weeks tears something in me.

After all this time, and after everything she did, I still love her. It surprises me, and it doesn’t.

When the cough subsides, and she stops gasping for air, I go back to the other side of the table. “There’s nothing else they can do?”

She takes a drink. “No. And even if they could, I don’t know that I’d want it. I’m tired. So tired. I did enough living. Bad, horrible living. I’m done.”

I reach for her hand across the table. “Mom …” I don’t know what to say, but in this moment I forgive her. “I guess we must make the most of that time.”

She squeezes my hand. “I’d like that. And maybe I can be a good mother for you now.”

I want to believe it. And I want to believe that a month or two will be enough to erase a lifetime of pain and neglect. Maybe there will be a miracle cure in the next few weeks. One can hope. But …

Sometimes hope is a dragon.

Sometimes hope is a butterfly with broken wings.

Chapter Fifty-Three

I spotmy father crossing the street to get to my building and meet him halfway.

“Thanks for meeting me. I needed to talk to someone, and you’re the only one who can understand this.”

“Sure. Is everything okay with you?” His gaze searches my face.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s get some coffee, then we can talk.”

He falls into step next to me for the next couple of minutes until we get to the mostly empty cafeteria. We get our coffees and find a quiet place to sit against a wall.

I meet his eyes. “This is about Mom. I went to see her yesterday.”

“How is she?”

I shake my head. “Not good. Not good at all.”

He takes a sip of his coffee and waits for me to elaborate.

“This … this was the first time I went back since I left for college. Nearly four years.” If my confession surprises him, he doesn't show it.

“Was she mean to you?”

“Not at all.”