“So much time wasted,” my mother says.
We lounge on our stomachs on beige pillows in a sunlit room because that can happen in dreams, though never in real life. My mother was so not a stomach-lounging person. I don’t say anything. She is right, and I have nothing to add to that. I am long past where I need her to acknowledge that her choices changed my life trajectory. We both know that and know that we know that. This is the closest to closure we have ever been.
Then her phone rings, and the moment passes.