“I don’t want to put you in the middle.”
“You aren’t. Gerald already did.”
I explained everything.
She listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she sighed.
“I raised him better than this.”
Tears stung my eyes.
“I kept wondering if I was being unreasonable.”
“You had surgery because you were in pain.”
“Yes.”
“And he asked for a prize?”
“Yes.”
She went quiet.
“I’m ashamed of him.”
Gerald called that evening, furious.
“You had no right to tell my mother.”
“I answered her question honestly.”
“You embarrassed me.”
“No, Gerald.”
“You embarrassed yourself.”
He hung up.
Two weeks later, he asked to meet.
We sat in a quiet café near my mother’s house.
He looked exhausted.
“I’ve been thinking about everything.”
“I hope so.”
“I realize I handled it badly.”
I waited.
He stared into his coffee.
“But I still wish you’d considered my feelings.”
There it was again.
Not an apology.
Not accountability.
Just another attempt to make my recovery about him.
I pushed my untouched cup away.
“I spent years believing you loved me enough to want me healthy.”
“I do.”
“No.”
I stood.
“You loved the version of me that kept suffering because it matched what you liked.”
“Lyla.”
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