The morning that I finally decided to leave that lover, I called my mother. This time, I did not wait three years to write a book about it and then send it to her. I am leaving her, I said. It’s been so much worse than I told you. How worse? she asked me, and I told her. Why didn’t you tell me? she asked. I don’t know, I said. I was weeping. What if I had told you and then didn’t leave her? She was quiet for a moment. Did you think that I would hold that against you? I wept harder and covered my eyes with my hand. Listen to me, she said, her voice strong and unwavering as a hand under my chin.
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