She called me “disgusting” in front of everyone.
“Don’t touch me,” she said. “I wish you weren’t my mother.”
I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. I went home, packed a small bag, and left one envelope on the kitchen table. Her name on the front. Nothing else.
The next day she texted:
An hour later she called, breathing hard. “Mom… where did you get this?”
“Read the date,” I said.
“It’s… a courthouse stamp,” she whispered. “The week I was born.”
“Keep reading.”
Inside wasn’t a letter.
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