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THE GIFT
A WEEK LATER my mom knocks on my door. I remain where I am on my couch. She
knocks again more insistently, and my resentment rises. I’m not sure that our
relationship will ever recover. It’s hard for me to forgive her when she doesn’t fully
understand her crime.
I fling open the door as she’s about to knock again.
“Now’s not a good time,” I say.
She flinches, but I don’t care. I want to hurt her again and again. My anger is never very
far away. I expected it to fade with the passage of time, but it’s still right there under the
surface of things.
She takes a breath. “I got you something.” Her voice is small and confused.
I roll my eyes. “You think presents will help?”
I know I’ve hurt her again. The present shakes in her hand. I take it because I just want
the conversation to be over. I want to lock myself away from her and not have to feel pity
or empathy or compassion or anything.
She turns to go but then stops. “I still love you, Madeline. And you still love me. You
have your whole life ahead of you. Don’t waste it. Forgive me.”