I didn’t knock. I just stood outside my mom’s apartment, frozen by twelve years of silence after our fight when Dad died. Then, two weeks ago, I got a letter: “Hope you’re well. Still keep your photos on the fridge. I’m sorry.”
It wasn’t from her—it was her boyfriend, Frank, trying to bring us back together.
When she opened the door, she looked like she’d seen a ghost. The first hours were awkward, but we talked. Cried. Laughed. She showed me she’d kept everything—photos, drawings, even the macaroni necklace I made her at six.
Then Frank told me the truth: she had early Parkinson’s. She hadn’t wanted me to feel obligated.
So I stayed. Found a small apartment nearby. Slowly, we started over. Coffee in the mornings, crime shows at night, arguing about laundry—normal stuff. Real stuff.
That Christmas, she gave me a photo album. The last page said: “Families don’t always get it right the first time. But sometimes they get another shot.”
We did. And maybe, if you’re still holding back from someone you love—maybe the door’s still open.
