My son called to say they’d moved to another state last week and « forgotten » to tell me… so I wished him luck, hung up, and opened the folder I’d been secretly creating.

He didn’t look me in the eyes.

I watched as he opened the car door for Vanessa with a tenderness he no longer showed me. She slipped inside without looking back, without saying goodbye.

Patty came over to me and put her hand on my shoulder.

“Stella… this woman is no good for Ryan.”

« But he doesn’t see it, » I whispered. « Or he doesn’t want to see it. »

That evening, I sat in the living room, without turning on the light, listening to the sounds of the house around me. This was the chair where Ryan and I watched movies on Fridays, where he did his homework and I knitted, where we laughed until we fell asleep.

Now I’m alone.

The house felt more like a mausoleum than a home.

And something stirred within me. Not just sadness, but something colder. The beginning of the end of my patience.

Because being ignored is one thing.

Being erased is a different matter altogether.

Vanessa erased me from my son’s life line by line.

She didn’t know I still had mascara.

And I was about to write my own ending.

May arrived, with stifling heat and a phone call that changed everything.

It was Saturday morning. I was watering the plants on the patio when the phone rang.

Ryan.

My heart skipped a beat in that stupid, hopeful way it always did, even after all this time.

« Mom, how are you? » His voice sounded lively, almost forced. « We haven’t spoken in a while. »

Three months. Exactly three months since our last real conversation.

« I’m here, » I said. « The same goes for you. »

« Okay. Okay. » He hurried. « Hey Mom, Vanessa and I would like to stop by this afternoon. We have something important to tell you. Something you’ll be very happy to hear. »

Important.

How ironic. When I had surgery a year earlier, he arrived with a limp bouquet of flowers that he’d clearly bought at a gas station.

« Sure, » I said. « I’ll be right there. »

I hung up, and a strange feeling crept under my skin—not excitement. A warning. Good mothers thrive on years of knowledge of their child’s lies.

So I spent the afternoon cleaning and cooking. I made iced tea, chopped fruit, and made potato tacos. Part of me still wanted to please him, still craved his approval, as if he were seven years old and I were the center of his universe.