I felt the familiar urge to defend myself with a speech.
I wanted to list everything I had done for my children.
Every meal.
Every late-night fever.
Every load of laundry.
Every time I had shown up while running on nothing.
But I did not need to argue my entire motherhood in front of a child.
“Grandma is not your mother,” I said.
“I am.”
My mother’s head snapped toward me.
“You need to watch how you talk in my house.”
I picked up the blue folder.
“You’re right about one thing.
It is your house.”
I helped my son into clean clothes.
I told my daughter to get dressed.
My mother followed me from room to room, shifting her argument every time the last one failed.
First, the letter was probably a mistake.
Then the neighborhood was probably dangerous.
Then the apartment would be too small.
Then I would lose the assistance if I earned more money.
Then I would come crawling back within a month.
Finally, while I was tying my son’s shoes, she said the thing beneath all the other things.
“You cannot manage those children without me.”
I looked up.
She was standing in the doorway with her arms folded, but the confidence had drained from her face.
“Last night, I managed them without you,” I said.
She opened her mouth.
I continued.
“This morning, I managed them while you insulted me.”
My daughter was close enough to hear.
That mattered, but not because I wanted her to choose sides.
I wanted her to witness me tell the truth without screaming.
My mother lowered her voice.
“Everything I’ve done has been to help you.”
“Help should not make my children believe they can ignore me.”
“So this is my fault now?”
“The way you speak to me is your responsibility.”
She stepped aside, but her silence felt temporary.
I loaded the children into the car.
My son fell asleep before I reached the end of the street.
My daughter stared out the window with her arms crossed.
Halfway to the housing office, she asked, “Are we moving?”
“Maybe.”
“Grandma said we can’t afford a place.”
I tightened my hands on the steering wheel.
“Adults should not make children worry about adult money problems.”
“But can we?”
I glanced at her in the mirror.
“This appointment is to find out.”
She was quiet for a moment.
“Will I still see Grandma?”
Her question softened something in me.
I was angry with my mother, but I did not want to turn that anger into a weapon.
My daughter loved her.
My son loved her.
