Michael made one last attempt. “Mom, please. I love you. I’ve always loved you. I made a terrible, unforgivable mistake, but you have to believe me when I say I’m sorry.”
I looked at him—this man who had been my entire world for more than three decades. I saw the tears in his eyes, the desperation on his face. And part of me, that maternal part that never dies, wanted to comfort him, wanted to hold him and tell him everything would be okay.
But another part of me—the part that had been trampled on tonight, the part that deserved dignity and respect—held firm.
“Love without respect isn’t love,” I said finally. “It’s dependence. It’s manipulation. It’s convenience. And I have spent my whole life confusing one for the other.”
“But I can learn,” he insisted. “I can be better. Give me a chance.”
“I already gave you every chance in the world,” I replied. “I gave you my youth. I gave you my money. I gave you my time. I gave you my unconditional love.”
My voice didn’t shake. It surprised me that it didn’t.
“And you chose to use me as a stepping stone and then kick me away when you thought you didn’t need me anymore.”
The words were harsh, but they were true, and they needed to be said.