It wasn’t until I was in my car with the engine running that it fully hit me. They’d called my mother. She was on the list because it felt wrong not to include her, like admitting I had parents who didn’t show up when it mattered.
My thumb found her contact before I could talk myself out of it. She picked up on the third ring, her voice sharp and impatient.
“What is it, Linda? I’m in the middle of something.”
“They called you from the school,” I said tightly. “Max is sick. Why didn’t you go get him?”
There was a pause, like she had to remember who Max was.
“Oh. Yeah, that. I’m busy. Call someone who actually cares.”
She said it flat, bored, the way someone would say I take my coffee black. No apology. No shame.
Something in me snapped so hard I could almost hear it breaking.
For one vivid second, I saw myself turning the car around, driving to her house, walking in without knocking. I gripped the wheel tighter, pulled over to the shoulder, my hands shaking.
“What did you say?”
