“Yes, really,” she snapped. “You think you can make up some fantasy at the door and I’ll just go away? I have nowhere else to go. You know my wedding was canceled. You know Damon humiliated me in front of everybody. You know I need support.”
I almost laughed.
Support. That was the word she always used when she wanted to take something.
Support meant borrowing my clothes in college and returning them ruined.
Support meant asking me to cover her rent “just this once” and never paying me back.
Support meant expecting me to leave work in the middle of a night shift to rescue her after she got drunk downtown.
Support meant I was an ATM, a maid, an emotional punching bag, and a spare life she could cannibalize whenever hers fell apart.
It had never once meant kindness in return.
My mother stepped forward again, her expression twisting into that familiar blend of disgust and control I had known since childhood.
“Open the door,” she said through clenched teeth. “We’ll discuss this inside.”
“No.”
Her nostrils flared. “Maya—”
“I said no.”
The hallway seemed to go silent around us.