“Took me two years of therapy to realize calling her Mom only amplified my self-hate. Now,” he shrugged. “I’m used to the shift. I don’t want to imagine what going back would do.” The acidic burn of guilt scorched my tongue. I wished I’d been there for him. Wished he hadn’t needed the therapy I so desperately needed but refused to seek out, because I didn’t deserve relief. The pain for what I’d done would forever remain front and center, as it should. But I should’ve suffered in this alone. Not him. Never him. “I’m glad you’re better.”
