“Maybe,” I said.
His breathing changed.
“But Dad?”
“What?”
“She chose you first.”
Silence.
“Grandma didn’t give birth to you.
Elaine did.”
He said nothing.
“But Grandma chose to raise you.”
Still nothing.
“She protected you from prison once.
She hid your scandals.
She gave you chances.”
My voice softened.
“You spent your whole life furious that she wouldn’t give you everything, and never noticed she had already given you what Marisa and I spent our childhood begging for.”
His voice was barely audible.
“What?”
“A mother who kept showing up.”
He disconnected.
That was the last conversation we ever had.
Years have passed since then.
My graduation diploma hangs in my office now.
Not because the degree is the most important thing I achieved.
Because of what happened around it.
Sometimes visitors notice the photograph beside it.
Me in my black gown.
Alone.
The auditorium nearly empty.
