It felt as if her kindness might somehow repair what had broken in our home when Mom left, yet Amber’s friendliness had an expiration date.
By the time we turned nine, her attitude had twisted into something completely different.
“Could we buy those new shoes all the kids are wearing?” Lucy asked one morning.
“Be thankful for the things you own,” Amber snapped. “Your real mom left you behind. I am the one who stayed.”
“I apologize,” Lucy murmured.
“Do not apologize. Just show some gratitude.”
That response became the theme song of our childhood. We heard those words whenever we asked about school trips or new winter coats.
“Cash is tight, kids,” Amber would sigh. “You know your dad works so hard.”
So we made do with secondhand clothes, cheap meals, no birthday parties, and no holiday trips.
Meanwhile, Amber’s closet filled with expensive jackets. She bought a new cell phone every year and visited the salon roughly every four weeks.
“How come Amber gets new stuff while we get nothing?” I asked Lucy one night under the blankets.
“Quiet,” Lucy hushed me. “Do not make her angry. She could leave too.”
That became the fear that shaped us: the idea that mothers leave, and love had to be earned by always staying small, quiet, and grateful.
We believed we were the kind of children a mother would easily abandon. It had happened once before, and we were terrified it might happen again.
We had no idea that everything we believed about our mother’s disappearance was completely false.
The drive over to Amber’s house felt strange this Mother’s Day.
