A month later, my mother moved into a small cottage near my home. The bruises faded, but the betrayal took longer to heal.
One evening, we sat together on the porch watching the sun disappear behind the trees.
“Do you think Michael ever loved me?” she asked quietly.
I squeezed her hand. “I think he forgot that love is measured by how we protect people when they are vulnerable.” For the first time in weeks, my mother smiled, and the silence between us finally felt peaceful.
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