My Mother

it’s yours.”

That landed.

Because the ugly truth was, some part of me still wanted her to become the mother I needed. Even at thirty-two. Even with my own child lying under tubes and wires. Some childish corner of my heart still waited for Marlene Hartley to touch my shoulder and say, I’m here, baby. I’ve got you.

Instead, she opened Venmo again.

“Accept continue reading …