She laughed.
“That word means something different when you say it.”
“Yes,” I said.
“It does.”
Months later, on the anniversary of Michael’s death, I went to his grave.
I didn’t bring flowers.
I brought his letter.
Sitting beside the stone, I read it again.
At the bottom, beneath everything he had written about Greg, the trust, and Willow & Hart, there was one final sentence I somehow hadn’t noticed the first time.
Beth, if he ever makes you choose between being his mother and being yourself, please choose yourself. I already know how much you love him.
I pressed the page against my chest.
For four years, I had believed Michael had left me alone.
He hadn’t.
He had left one final form of protection behind.
Not the trust.
Not the attorneys.
Not the inheritance.
Permission.
Permission to stop destroying myself simply because I was a mother.
