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I'm not finished.

"You never wanted a kid. Fine. Now it's my turn. I don't want to see you. Either of you. You don't get the party version of me anymore. The one who shows up and smiles and lets the Hendersons coo over her so you can feel like you didn't fail."

My throat tightens, but I make myself say the rest.

"That girl's retired."

For a moment, neither of us says anything.

Her face is utterly motionless. I watch her take it in, sort it, find the cleanest way out.

Then she nods slowly.

"Okay, honey. You're right."

The words land harder than any argument could have.

For a second, I almost wish she'd gotten angry. Yelled. Defended herself. Anything.

Because anger would mean this mattered to her.

Instead, she accepts it with the same calm efficiency she'd use to reschedule a lunch or change a seating chart.

And that's when it hits me.

I've spent years believing there had to be something underneath all of this. Some hidden version of my parents that loved me more than they knew how to show. Some locked door I just hadn't figured out how to open yet.

But maybe there was never a door.

Maybe I wasn't standing outside of anything.

My eyes start to burn.

I don't let a single tear fall while she can see me.

"If you ever want your daughter back," I say, and my voice catches once, just once, "you're going to have to prove you want her. Not invite her. Prove it."

"Of course," she says, in the tone she uses for vendors.

I hang up before she can say darling again.

For a while, I just sit there with the phone in my hand.

It hurts.

It hurts so much I have to press my fist against the center of my chest and breathe through it.

But underneath the ache, something else rises.

Relief.

I said it.

For the first time in twenty-five years, I said what I needed to say to the person who needed to hear it, and I didn't soften it. I didn't package it. I didn't turn it into something easier for her to swallow.

It hurt.

It still hurts.