Then I looked around the apartment she could no longer enter.
My documents were locked away.
My accounts belonged to me.
My name was being repaired.
The diploma hung straight on the wall.
I blocked the number without replying.
For years, my mother had called me the strong one whenever she wanted me to survive something she should never have done.
That night, strength looked different.
It looked like a new lock, a police case number, a framed degree, and one quiet room where no one could use my love as permission.
The penny remained the last money I ever sent her.
