She told me she was very sick and asked if she could come back.

“It would mean a lot if I could stay in the home I raised you in,” she said.But she hadn’t raised me — my dad had. The man who worked double shifts, who learned how to braid hair badly but tried anyway, who sacrificed so much just so I could have a normal childhood. I told her no.Yesterday, the police came to my door to tell me she had passed away.

For a moment, the world felt quiet. It wasn’t the shock of losing her — I had already lost her years ago — but the weight of knowing there would be no more chances. No chance for reconciliation, no chance for different words, no chance for closure from her.That night, I sat with my dad. We didn’t talk