“Mom?”
His voice sounded smaller.
“Yes.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Start with the truth.”
He breathed shakily.
“I stole from you. I lied to you. I forged your name. I sent you away because I thought if you were gone, I could pretend none of it had happened.”
I closed my eyes.
“Why did you think you were entitled to my life?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is not an answer.”
“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”
His voice cracked.
“I was afraid. The business failed. I borrowed money. Then I borrowed more. Every time I thought I could fix it, I made it worse.”
“You had chances to tell me.”
“I know.”
“You could have asked for help.”
“I know.”
“You could have let me hate you and still come home.”
He began to cry.
I listened without rescuing him from the sound.
“I love you,” I said finally. “But loving you does not mean pretending you did not hurt me.”
“I understand.”
“You may not yet.”
“I want to.”
“Then do the work. Pay back what you can. Tell the truth even when it makes you look worse.”
“I will.”
“And Bradley?”
“Yes?”
“You are my son. You are not the owner of me.”
