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I straightened my back and met her eyes directly.

"Tell me. What reason is worth sixteen years of silence? What reason justifies pretending to be the devoted mother — sending me Sofia's old things, letting me believe you were going without so I could have them?"

"You bought Sofia a piano. A car. And you sent me her secondhand leftovers."

"You took her to summer camp. You were there for every milestone of her life. But you couldn't even pick up the phone on the day I got my university offer."

"Where were you when I was crying? Where were you when I had a fever? Where were you when someone was hurting me? Where were you when I needed you to be proud of me?"

"You weren't there. You were never there."

"Because I'm not your daughter, am I? I'm just the one you threw away."

I'd told myself I'd moved past it.

But standing in front of her, I realized I remembered everything. Every single thing. Every humiliation, every fever, every night I'd woken up calling for her in the dark. It was all still there, perfectly preserved, like pages in an invisible diary she'd never been meant to read.

Her mascara was running. She shook her head, unable to speak.

I'd lost the appetite to keep watching.

She called after me as I walked away. I didn't turn back.

Outside the gala hall, the night air came at me cool and sharp.

I stood on the lawn and looked up at the moon.

It was full, and very bright.

When I was small, I used to believe there was something magical living in the moon — some force that could find people for you, bring them back. I used to talk to it on clear nights and ask it to show my mother the way home.

I knew better now. The moon was just a moon.

Everything that had carried me to this point had been mine alone.