My mom and I had just come back from visiting my sister. We were sitting outside talking before going inside. The dashboard lights were green. The moonlight on the snow was blue.
“I may not have accomplished all I wanted in this life, but I think I've been a good Mom.”
I thought of when I'd run away from home when I was fifteen. I remembered the beatings, the arguments, the resentment I had felt toward her.
I thought of the one dress she had in her closet and one dress to wear that she had kept for years. I thought of how she had normally gone barefoot to save money on shoes. I remembered her struggles to raise and feed us kids by herself after my dad had died. She had kept the family together, not drank, didn't do drugs, tried her best to give us a future.
I turned to her and said, “Yes, you were a good Mom.”