My son didn’t even look at her.
“Go upstairs, Emma.”
Rebecca finally spoke, but not to me.
“Do what your father said.”
No one helped me with the suitcase. No one said, “Let’s figure something out tomorrow.” No one did anything that looked remotely like kindness.
I raised my umbrella, turned with whatever dignity I could still gather, and walked slowly back to the curb. The pain in my hip hit so hard I had to bite down to keep from making a sound. When I finally lowered myself sideways into the taxi, I looked up once more.
The door was already closed.
He didn’t even wait to see me get in the car.
On the ride back to my apartment, the city passed in blurred, wet streaks behind the glass—lit pharmacies, taco trucks smoking at the curb, motorcycles cutting between cars, couples huddled under awnings, people carrying on with their night as though the world still made sense.
I sat there with my medicine bag on my lap and one thought sinking deeper with every red light: rejection from a stranger hurts, but rejection from your own child strips away every lie you’ve been telling yourself.
I reached my building at 9:15. The night guard helped me out of the cab. He asked if I was okay. I lied.