Again.
Just like she always had.
When I was eight.
When I was sixteen.
When I was twenty-five.
And now.
At forty.
My eyes filled with tears.
“You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
She smiled.
Because that’s what mothers do.”
I broke.
Completely.
For several minutes I cried harder than I had since my father’s funeral.
