1642734778_punk-57-pdf

the tops of my knees. “And I want you to tell me something before I leave.
Something I need to hear. I want you to tell me that you were never going to
look for us.”
Her teary eyes shoot up to me.
Yeah, I might’ve convinced myself that I came here to collect the photo
album of my sister’s school pictures and newspaper clippings Annie said
she mailed her here that I found in her file cabinet and my grandfather’s
watch, but really, part of me had a shred of hope. Part of me thought she
might still be a good person and have an explanation. A way to tell me why
—even in death—Annie’s mom still didn’t come for her.
“I want you to tell me you don’t regret leaving and you haven’t thought
about us a single day since you left,” I demand. “You were happier without
us, and you don’t want us.”
“Misha—”
“Say it,” I growl. “Let me leave here free of you. Give me that.”
Maybe she missed us and didn’t want to disrupt our lives. Maybe she
missed us and didn’t want to disrupt her life. Or maybe that part of her life
is broken and over, and she doesn’t want to go back. Maybe she doesn’t
care.
But I do know that I can’t care about this anymore. I stare at her and
wait for her to say what I need to hear.
“I wasn’t going to look for either of you,” she whispers, staring at her
desk with tears streaming down her face. “I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t go
back. I couldn’t be your mother.”
I slam my hand down on her desk, and she jumps. “I don’t give a shit
about your excuses. I won’t feel sorry for you. Now say it. Say you were
happier without us, and you didn’t want us.”
She starts crying again, but I wait.