“Mom, I know I hurt you, but you didn’t love me enough to just forgive me. Your forgiveness had conditions.” “Azere.” Her mouth falls open, her chin trembling slightly. “How can you say such a thing? Of course I love you.” “No, you don’t.” It’s agonizing to admit this—to say it out loud, to breathe life into the terrible words I’ve been mulling over for days. “Mommy, you don’t love me enough. Your love, like your forgiveness, has conditions.”
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