I blink at the person lying in front of me. This woman shares almost no recognizable features with the mother I remember. Connie’s face is hollow, with circles under her eyes that are almost black. Her lips are cracked and dry, and her hair is no longer dark brown, like mine, but bleached blond and fraying. If I saw her on the street, I wouldn’t have thought twice as I passed her by. Maybe I have. A tear falls onto my cheek, but I wipe it away before Odette or Connie sees it.
💔
