With that, my mom turned and walked out of my apartment.
I chased after her and caught her arm at the elevator.
"Mom, don't go."
She turned back, smiling as she patted my hand. "It's fine, sweetheart. I can sleep anywhere."
She had a smile on her face, but her eyes were rimmed with red.
I knew she was hurting. That forced smile was just to keep me from worrying.
But the harder she tried to hide it, the more my chest ached.
I gripped her hand tight, my voice breaking. "It's not the same."
"Mom, this is my home. You're my mother. You belong here."
My father passed away when I was young. Mom raised me on her own.
To make sure I never went without, she worked three jobs a day. Before dawn, she was at the bakery kneading dough. During the day, she ran a sewing machine at the garment factory. At night, she washed dishes at a restaurant.
She endured so much. Swallowed so much hardship.
But she never once let me wear a dirty shirt or eat a cold meal.
So from the time I was little, I made myself a quiet promise: study hard, work hard, and give her the life she deserved.
After graduation, I threw myself into my career, saved every penny, and bought this apartment. The very first thing I did was ask her to move in.
She refused every time.
One day it was the chickens that needed feeding, the garden that needed tending. The next, she'd say she was used to the countryside and wouldn't know what to do with herself in the city.
Then I got married, and she had a new excuse: young couples needed their privacy, and she didn't want to intrude.
But I knew the real reason. She was afraid of being a burden. Afraid my in-laws would resent her. Afraid she'd become a weight around my neck.
This time, she'd finally agreed to visit, and she hadn't even sat down before someone drove her out.
How was that fair?
When she saw I wasn't letting go, Mom smoothed back my hair and spoke softly.
"Silly girl. If I stay, it only makes things harder for you."
I shook my head. "Mom, I'm not afraid of hard."
"But I am."
She looked at me, tears balanced on her lashes, refusing to fall.
"I'm afraid you'll fight with them because of me."
"I'm afraid that after the fight, you'll hide somewhere and cry alone."
"I'm afraid that after the crying, you'll still have to face those same people the next morning."
The bridge of my nose burned. Tears spilled down my cheeks before I could stop them.
Mom gently wiped them away, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Zoe, I know you're a good daughter."
"But it breaks my heart."
"If having me here means you're caught in the middle, torn apart from both sides, then I'd rather I never came at all."
I opened my mouth to speak, but the elevator doors slid open.
Mom pulled free of my hand and stepped inside. She turned to face me and smiled.
"I'm going now."
"Go back inside. It's cold out here."
Standing there, watching my mother smile at me through reddened eyes as the doors began to close, something shifted inside me.
A bold plan took shape.
I didn't force her to come back to the apartment.
Instead, I took her to the best hotel in the neighborhood and booked a room.
Rather than make her sleep in that guest room with its stained mattress, I'd let her have one comfortable night.
After check-in, I walked her to her room.
She took in the elegant furnishings, then drifted to the window and gazed down at the glittering city lights spread out below. Her whole body went stiff with unease.
"Zoe, didn't Connor say there was a motel around here for sixty dollars a night? Why did you bring me to a place like this?"
"Look at this room. It must cost a fortune."
I took her hands, calloused and rough, and guided her to the edge of the bed. We sat down together, and I looked her in the eye.
"Mom, your daughter can afford it now. Just this once, let me take care of you. Okay?"
She looked at me. Her lips trembled, parted, then pressed together again. Finally, she nodded, her eyes glistening.
