« Ava deserves a mother who’s actually present. »
A present mother.
The words hit harder than any insult.
I was the woman who taught Ava to tie her shoes.
The woman who stayed awake beside her hospital bed during pneumonia — four nights, the winter she was six, in a chair that folded out into something a nurse called a bed and I called a punishment.
The woman who attended school plays, parent-teacher conferences, dance recitals, doctor appointments, and every terrifying night when she woke up crying from bad dreams.
Meanwhile, Celine appeared twice a month carrying expensive gifts and designer handbags — the same Hermès Birkin, in a different color each visit, that Ava had once asked me, in the car, whether « real moms all have. »
And suddenly she was the devoted mother.
« I already scheduled vacation for those dates, » I said carefully.
« Ava and I planned to bake Christmas cookies and see the lights downtown. »
