her and wrapped my arms around her.
She began crying almost instantly.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered repeatedly. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”
I held her tighter.
“I don’t need you to be perfect. I just wanted you to be my mom.”
She buried her face against my shoulder and cried.
For the first time in fifteen years, I was finally holding my mother.
We began rebuilding our relationship slowly. We talked for hours, shared meals, and filled in the missing pieces of each other’s lives.
There were stories I
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