Chapter 10 - MY MOTHER TOLD ME THE TRUTH
Mom and I moved into a small apartment.
Two bedrooms.
Cheap carpet.
No garage.
I loved it.
First night:
Pizza on floor.
No dining table yet.
Mom said:
“I owe you an apology.”
“You already said sorry.”
“Not enough.”
She explained something adults often avoid admitting.
She had seen warning signs.
Not everything.
But enough to leave earlier.
Greg controlled money.
Insulted me.
Grabbed her arm.
Checked phones.
Isolated us.
She kept hoping each incident was the last.
“Why?”
“I loved him.”
I didn’t understand.
Then she said:
“And I was afraid of starting over.”
That I understood.
Our apartment had almost no furniture.
Starting over looked scary.
Then:
“I’m not telling you this so you’ll forgive me.”
I looked at her.
“I do.”
She cried.
“But I’m still mad.”
She laughed through tears.
“You’re allowed.”
That became our rule.
Multiple feelings allowed.
Then therapy.
I hated first session.
Second too.
Third less.
I learned my body reacted before my brain.
Someone grabbing wrist?
Panic.
Black plaid shirts?
Heart racing.
Metal watches?
Sometimes nausea.
Greg had worn one.
Dr. Reed explained during follow-up:
“Your body remembers danger.”
My cheek healed.
Swelling disappeared.
Tiny scar inside mouth.
Nobody could see it.
I could feel it with tongue.
For months, I touched it whenever nervous.
Then one day I realized I hadn’t for weeks.
Progress.
Mom returned to work.
Financial recovery slower.
Some stolen funds were recoverable.
Some weren’t.
Greg’s debts were his.
Legal disentanglement took time.
Then David’s untouched North Valley account became important.
It legally belonged to Mom.
$126,000 plus growth.
She cried when confirmed.
Not because she was rich.
Because Greg hadn’t taken everything.
Dad had left one protected piece.
Mom used part for legal costs and housing.
Saved rest.
Then she said:
“Your trust stays yours.”
“I know.”
“I want you to hear me say it.”
Good.
Then Greg sent me a birthday card.
No direct contact permitted without approval, so it came through proper channels.
I refused to open it.
Mom stored it.
Not destroyed.
My choice later.
Then I asked:
“Do you hate him?”
She thought.
“Yes.”
Then:
“And sometimes I miss who I thought he was.”
May you like
That confused me.
Years later, it wouldn’t.
