Michael lifted his head. “Mom, please. I’ll do anything. Anything. Give me a chance to prove I can change.”
I looked at my son, this broken man in front of me, and I felt something complicated in my chest—love mixed with disappointment, sadness mixed with rage. The maternal instinct that told me to forgive him fighting against the woman who knew she deserved more.
“Michael,” I said gently, “the problem isn’t whether you can change. The problem is that you shouldn’t need a dramatic revelation to treat your own mother well. The problem is that your respect for me was dependent on what you thought I could or couldn’t offer you.”
“I was blind,” he said, sobbing. “Marlelene had me blind, but that’s no excuse. I should have been stronger. I should have defended you.”
Marlene took a step back, outraged. “Now you’re blaming me. You agreed with everything. You said those things, too.”
“Why do I follow you blindly in everything?” Michael shouted, turning on her for the first time with rage. “Because I always want to please you, to keep the peace, to avoid your tantrums. But look what it cost me. Look what I did by trying to make someone happy who doesn’t even know what respect means.”