“Mama, I’m going away,” I whispered. “Oh, no,” she protested. “I’ve got to, mama. I can’t live this way.” “You’re not running away from something you’ve done?” “I’ll send for you, mama. I’ll be all right.” “Take care of yourself. And send for me quickly. I’m not happy here,” she said. “I’m sorry for all these long years, mama. But I could not have helped it.” I kissed her and she cried.
