I turned the album toward Karen. “Here’s my condition,” I said. “Before I give you anything, find one photo. Just one. Any page, any year.” I tapped the album. “Find a picture where you were there.”
She stared at me. “Go ahead,” I said. “First birthday. First day of school. Any event. Any random day. Show me one time you showed up.” She flipped pages. Faster. Then slower. Then stopped.
“This is ridiculous,” she snapped. “I don’t need photos to prove I’m your mother. I carried you for nine months. That should be enough.” I closed the album.
“No,” I said. “That was your choice. Being a mother is everything after that. You weren’t there.”
She pointed at my mom. “You think she did this alone?” she said. “I put you there. I started your story. I chose that door.” My mom laughed once. “You chose to dump a baby and hope someone else fixed it,” she said.
I looked at Karen. “You weren’t there when I was sick,” I said. “You weren’t there for homework, plays, exams, or late nights at the office. You didn’t fold one shirt. You didn’t answer one email. She did.”
Karen crossed her arms. “So you’re cutting me out?” she said. “You’re successful, and I get nothing? You owe me.”
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