So we stopped.
Some days were good.
Others weren’t.
Once, Leo refused to answer Goldi’s call because he was angry.
She didn’t complain.
She simply texted:
I understand. I’ll be here when you’re ready.
That mattered too.
A week after his birthday, I climbed into the attic.
The Mother’s Day card was still inside the old box.
Dust covered the envelope.
The cartoon lion cub was faded.
I carried it downstairs.
Goldi was sitting at the kitchen table with Leo, helping him compare community-college programs.
I placed the card in front of her.
She stared at it.
“What is this?”
“I bought it the week he was born.”
Goldi opened it.
Her hand immediately flew to her mouth.
She read the printed words.
For the mom who makes everything feel safe.
“No,” she whispered.
She pushed it toward me.
“I can’t take this.”
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t make anything safe.”
I looked at Leo.
Then at her.
“No.”
I sat down.
“You didn’t.”
Goldi’s eyes filled.
“But maybe that’s not what the card has to mean anymore.”
She looked confused.
I handed her a pen.
