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“I called you a greedy vulture,” I whispered.
“I’ve been called worse.”
But I could see the hurt behind the joke.
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“I told you I never wanted to see you again.”
He nodded once.
“I know.”
“And you still did all of this?”
He was quiet for a long moment before answering.
“She was our mom.”
That was all.
No defense.
No need for recognition.
Just love.
Pure and uncomplicated.
And suddenly, all the anger I’d carried collapsed under the weight of what he’d sacrificed.
“I’m sorry,” I said, tears blurring my vision. “I was wrong.”
For a moment, he just looked at me.
Then he stepped forward and pulled me into a hug.
And there, in the middle of an empty parking lot, months of silence and years of distance finally began to fall away.
We held onto each other like we were children again.
Like maybe we hadn’t lost everything after all.
And for the first time since Mom died, I felt something other than grief.
I felt peace.
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