“This has my signature all over it.” Tear-swelled eyes lower toward creamy swirls in your now-room-temperature latte, and for a moment you look as if gravity might betray you.
I rest my hand on the table, palm-up, an invitation, and notice how quickly it disappears into the weave of your fingers, hands laced together into a mesh of unsettled fear, aching with guilt.
You tell me how her struggles tear at your mother’s heart, this adult child wearing the shadow-eyed mask of addiction, and how painful the recognition of each line in her face, each rationalization in her argument. “I know this darkness,” you say, eyes shifting as you remember things you’d rather forget.
“This has my signature all over it.”
Our sweaty hands are clasped tight. I don’t pull back. My own eyes shift — was that a memory?
Chewing my lower lip, I search for the right words — words that could heal or soothe or enfold — and come up short.
“I’m so sorry.”
What I want to say is too much, too raw.
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