At 11, my mother left me for another man, and my father raised me alone. Now I’m 29, my father has passed, and the house is mine. Out of nowhere, my estranged mother—now terminally ill—called, saying she wanted to “fix things” and move back in. I told her, “You didn’t raise me. You left.”
Days later, police knocked on my door. A neighbor had reported an unresponsive woman on my front steps. It was her—collapsed beside her suitcases after waiting for hours. She’s now hospitalized, but when asked if I was her emergency contact, I said no.
I do feel a pang of guilt, but I’ve already spent a lifetime mourning the mother who abandoned me. Opening my door to her now feels impossible. Does that make me heartless?
