Off The Record
On Mother’s Day, My Mom Said, “I Wish You’d Never Been My Daughter”—I Simply Walked Away
There were flowers on that table that I paid for.
A cheesecake nobody had touched. Four brunch entrees, mimosas, and a check that came to a hundred and ninety-two dollars before tip, on my card, at a restaurant in Charlotte that I had booked six weeks in advance because it was the place she liked.
And my mother looked directly across all of it at me and said:
“I wish you’d never been my daughter.”
For about four seconds I could not move.
My brother Ryan dropped his eyes to his plate. His wife Melissa suddenly found her napkin fascinating enough to fold twice.
Nobody said one word in my defense.
Not one.
She Folded Her Arms and Told Me What My Actual Offense Was
“You heard me, Emily.”
I hadn’t said anything. I hadn’t been able to.
“Ever since you married Daniel, everything is about your career and your house and your life. You barely remember this family exists.”
I was thirty-four years old. Regional operations manager for a logistics company. Sixty-hour weeks and a laptop that came on vacation with me.
I had helped my mother with her mortgage since my father died four years earlier.
I had paid my brother’s attorney retainer during his divorce.
And the previous Christmas I had driven four hours through freezing rain on I-85 because my mother had called and said she couldn’t bear an empty house.
Apparently none of that counted toward anything.
“What exactly,” I asked, very quietly, “would have made me a good daughter?”
“Someone who puts family first.”
My Brother Finally Looked Up and Said It Wasn’t the Time
“Em. Maybe this isn’t the moment.”
I gave a short laugh, because of course.
That’s the rule in my family and it has been my whole life. Whenever I am the one getting hurt, there is never a convenient time to talk about it.
There is always a convenient time when somebody needs eleven hundred dollars.
Mom pushed back from the table.
“I sacrificed everything for you.”
“And I’ve spent half my adult life paying you back for sacrifices I never asked you to make and that you keep using against me.”
Her face hardened.
And then she said the sentence that ended the entire arrangement.
“If I could do it again, I wouldn’t have had a daughter at all.”
I Reached for My Purse and My Husband Touched My Wrist
“Em.”
I shook my head at him.
And here’s what I want people to understand about that moment: there was no yelling. Nobody threw a napkin. I did not cry, not one time, not in that restaurant and not in the car.
I stood up.
“Then live like you don’t have one.”
Mom blinked.
“What?”
“You wish I’d never been your daughter. Okay. Starting today, you don’t have one.”
Ryan scoffed at me.
“Don’t be dramatic, Emily.”
I looked at my brother.
“You’ll understand tomorrow.”
Daniel followed me out without a word. He didn’t say anything in the parking lot either, which is one of about nine hundred reasons I married him.
I got into my SUV and started it and pulled out while my mother watched me through the restaurant window.
That night I blocked her number.
Then Ryan’s.
Then Melissa’s.
And I slept better than I had in about eight months.
At 6:17 the Next Morning My Phone Started Moving Across the Nightstand
One call. Then another. Then it just kept going.
Daniel picked his up first and his whole face changed.
“Emily.”
“What?”
He turned the screen toward me.
Twenty-three missed calls. Three voicemails.
And two texts from my brother, the newest one sent about ninety seconds earlier:
Call me NOW. Mom’s bank says her mortgage payment failed. So did the insurance. WHAT DID YOU DO
I sat up slowly.
Another message came in while I was reading.
Emily this isn’t funny. Mom could lose the house.
And for the first time in probably four years, I smiled without a single ounce of guilt attached to it.
Here’s What My Brother Did Not Understand: Nothing Had Failed
Nothing failed. Nothing bounced. Nothing was declined.
I had simply stopped paying bills that were never mine.
For four years after my father died, my mother told everybody — her sister, her church, her neighbors, the woman who does her hair — that she was getting by on Dad’s pension and Social Security.
Technically that was true.
What she left out was that I covered the difference.
The Actual Numbers Are the Reason This Story Exists
Every month, $1,460 came out of my account for her mortgage. Automatic, on the fifth.
Another $310 for homeowner’s insurance and an escrow shortage that never seemed to resolve.
Her phone plan. Her car insurance. And a supplemental health policy on top of her Medicare because she was constantly afraid of getting sick and not being able to pay for it.
Altogether, about twenty-four hundred dollars a month, every month, for four years.
Ryan knew about some of it.
He just made very sure never to know exactly how much, which is its own kind of decision.
At 7:05 an Unfamiliar Number Called and It Was My Brother on Somebody Else’s Phone
“Emily?”
“Good morning, Ryan.”
“You blocked me?”
“Yes.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
I went downstairs while Daniel started the coffee.
“Mom’s losing her mind. Her mortgage portal says the autopay was removed.”
“It was.”
“You removed it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I stopped at the kitchen island.
“Because she doesn’t have a daughter anymore. She was very clear about it in front of five people.”
Silence on that line.
Then he dropped his voice into the reasonable register.
“Come on. She was angry.”
“She was specific.”
“She didn’t mean it.”
“That’s convenient.”
Then He Told Me I Couldn’t Punish Her Financially Over One Sentence
“You can’t do this over one sentence, Emily.”
“I’m not punishing anybody. I’ve stopped subsidizing somebody who openly wishes I didn’t exist. Those are different.”
He exhaled hard into the phone.
“You know she can’t afford all of it.”
“Then help her.”
And there was a silence there that told me everything.
Because that’s the actual center of this whole story.
My brother is forty-one. He makes about ninety thousand a year in commercial sales. He drives a new F-150 and takes two vacations a year and posts pictures of both.
And he has never had money the moment our mother needed any.
Finally: “I’ve got two kids.”
“So?”
“Emily.”
“Yesterday I was being dramatic. This morning you’re calling before breakfast because my drama has a price tag.”
He started talking over me.
I hung up.
By Nine in the Morning, the Phone Tree Had Done Its Work
Mom’s best friend Carol called.
Then my Aunt Patricia.
Then a cousin I had not spoken to since a funeral in 2019.
And the story was already fully assembled: Emily had abandoned her grieving mother over a misunderstanding.
Not one person who called me repeated what my mother had actually said.
Not one. I asked two of them directly and both changed the subject.
At Noon She Emailed Me, and the Subject Line Was “I Hope You’re Proud of Yourself”
Three paragraphs. Humiliation, sacrifice, family loyalty, what people would think.
Not one sentence in it said I’m sorry.
I forwarded it to Daniel at work and he called me inside of four minutes.
“Don’t answer that.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
He paused.
“You know what she’s actually expecting, right?”
“Yes.”
“She’s expecting you to panic.”
I looked out my office window at traffic crawling on I-77.
“For once, she can panic.”
That Afternoon I Found Another One, and Then I Started a Spreadsheet
The electric bill was in her name — but my card had been attached to the autopay for almost three years, from a month in 2021 when hers got declined and I fixed it and then never took it off.
I removed it.
Then two streaming services. Then roadside assistance. Then a pharmacy delivery subscription I had genuinely forgotten existed.
And then I opened a spreadsheet, and I want to be clear about why.
Not out of spite. I wasn’t building a case.
I wanted to know the actual dollar cost of being the daughter my mother said she wished she’d never had.
The Twelve-Month Total Was $31,842 and I Sat and Looked at It for a Long Time
Thirty-one thousand, eight hundred and forty-two dollars.
And that number does not include one-offs.
It doesn’t include the water heater. Or the roof deductible. Or Ryan’s attorney retainer. Or my mother’s dental implants.
Or the eight thousand dollars I transferred in 2022 when she told me she was one disaster away from bankruptcy.
Daniel came home that night with Thai food and found me still looking at it.
“How much?”
“Thirty-one thousand a year.”
He pulled out the chair next to me.
“You knew it was a lot.”
“I didn’t know I was carrying a second mortgage. I genuinely did not know that. I never once added it up.”
My Aunt Texted Me That Night and I Sent Back the Only Two Sentences That Mattered
Your mother says you’re trying to make her homeless.
I typed: No. I stopped paying for a house I don’t own.
Patricia, instantly: She’s your mother.
I looked at that for a while before I answered.
And yesterday she said she wished she wasn’t.
She never responded.
On Wednesday My Brother Showed Up at My Office and Refused to Leave the Lobby
Security called me upstairs.
“Ma’am, there’s a gentleman here who says it’s a family emergency.”
I almost said no.
Then I changed my mind, and I’m glad I did, because that conversation was the one that finally showed me what was actually happening.
He came into the conference room red in the face.
“You need to fix this.”
I sat down and leaned back.
“What happened?”
“Mom talked to the bank.”
“And?”
“She’s got six years left on the mortgage and she can’t refinance on her income.”
“That sounds like information she should have had four years ago.”
His voice went up.
“She’s going to have to sell, Emily.”
And I sat there and waited.
And Then I Understood Exactly Why My Brother Was in My Conference Room
“That’s why you’re here.”
“What?”
“You don’t care that she hurt me. You care that if she sells that house, you lose the thing you’ve been assuming you’d inherit.”
His face changed.
That’s all. His face just changed, fast, the way a face does when somebody says the true thing out loud before you’ve prepared a version of it.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me why you’re actually here.”
“Because Mom is seventy years old.”
“She’s sixty-eight.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, Ryan. I really don’t.”
So I Opened My Laptop and Turned It Around
He got up and paced toward the window and told me this family had always taken care of each other, and I almost laughed out loud.
Instead I opened the spreadsheet.
“You want to talk about taking care of each other?”
“Emily—”
“No. Sit down.”
And he sat.
Maybe it was my tone. Maybe it was that we were in my building, on my floor, in a conference room where he could not talk over me and expect the room to go quiet the way it does at my mother’s table.
I turned the screen toward him.
“What is this?”
“That’s twelve months.”
He read the total. His eyebrows went up.
“That can’t be right.”
“It is.”
“Thirty-one thousand?”
“Thirty-one thousand eight hundred and forty-two.”
Then I Opened the Previous Year, and the One Before That
$38,109.
$44,770.
He stopped scrolling on that one.
“What happened that year?”
“The roof.”
His mouth tightened.
“I thought insurance covered the roof.”
“It covered part of it.”
“You never told me.”
“I did tell you. In March of that year. You said money was tight.”
“It was tight.”
“You bought a boat in June.”
His eyes narrowed.
“That has nothing to do with this.”
“Ryan. It has everything to do with this.”
He pushed the laptop back across the table.
He Said Nobody Was Denying That I’d Helped, and I Told Him Somebody Had
“Fine. You’ve helped her a lot. Nobody’s denying that.”
“Mom did. On Sunday. She said I don’t put family first.”
“She was emotional.”
“It’s interesting how her emotions always create obligations for other people.”
He stood up.
“This isn’t getting us anywhere.”
“It got me somewhere.”
“Where?”
“Out. I’m done being the family account.”
“That’s not what you are.”
“Then there shouldn’t be a crisis when I stop paying.”
His jaw worked.
And I watched him finally understand that there was no version of this conversation that ended with me restarting those payments.
“What do you want?” he said. “An apology?”
“I don’t want an apology somebody gives me because the mortgage is due on the fifth.”
Security walked him downstairs about eleven minutes later when he wouldn’t leave.
By Friday My Mother Changed Tactics, and the Apology That Arrived Was Not an Apology
The accusations stopped. The relatives went quiet.
And a voicemail came in from a number I didn’t recognize.
“Emily, honey, it’s Mom. I know you’re upset. I shouldn’t have said what I said. I was frustrated and sometimes mothers say things they don’t mean. Please call me so we can straighten this out. I love you.”
I listened to it twice.
Not because it moved me. Because something in it was off and it took me a second listen to locate it.
Daniel heard it too.
“She didn’t actually apologize.”
“She said she shouldn’t have said it.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
He’s right and it’s the entire difference.
She did not say I’m sorry I hurt you.
She said I shouldn’t have said it — which is a statement about her own conduct being poorly chosen, not about my being harmed.
To somebody outside this family, that probably sounds like splitting hairs.
Inside it, that distinction is the whole architecture.
My mother has spent forty years treating cruelty as a communication error rather than a decision.
She wasn’t sorry about the wound. She was sorry about the consequence.
I didn’t respond.
The Following Week She Drove Two Hours and Showed Up at My House Without Calling
Daniel spotted her on the doorbell camera. I was upstairs changing after work.
“Your mom’s here.”
“Did she call?”
“No.”
“Of course she didn’t.”
When I came down, she was on the porch holding a paper grocery bag.
And for about one irrational second I was eleven years old again.
Standing There, I Remembered Exactly What “Independent” Had Always Meant in My Family
I remembered her at the kitchen table waiting for me the day I came home with a B-minus in geometry.
I remembered her face when I picked a university four hours away instead of the one twenty minutes from home.
And I remembered being twenty-three and overhearing her tell my aunt that Ryan needed help while I was independent.
It took me until about thirty to understand what that word actually meant in our house.
Independent was the word they used when they wanted to give me less while asking me for more.
I opened the door and did not step back from it.
“Hi, Mom.”
She looked tired. Hair pulled back, and she had on the beige cardigan Dad bought her in 2016.
“I brought your casserole dish.”
I looked at the bag.
“You drove two hours to return a casserole dish.”
“I thought we could talk.”
“We can talk here.”
Her mouth tightened.
“On the porch?”
“Yes.”
She looked past me.
“Is Daniel home?”
“He is.”
“I don’t need an audience.”
“You don’t have one.”
She Set the Bag Down and Said She’d Already Apologized, and I Told Her She Hadn’t
“I said I was sorry.”
“No. You said you shouldn’t have said it.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
And there she was.
Not the gentle woman from the voicemail. The actual one.
I almost smiled, and she caught it.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, say it.”
“You’re angry because apologizing didn’t immediately restore your access to me.”
Her face went red.
“That is an ugly thing to say to your mother.”
“So was wishing I’d never been born.”
“I told you I didn’t mean it.”
“Didn’t you?”
And she looked away.
That Hurt More Than I Expected, Because I Already Knew the Answer
Not because I needed her to confirm it. Because the looking away was the confirmation and I had known it since Sunday.
My mother loves me. I have never actually doubted that and I don’t doubt it now.
She also resented me, and had for years, and I finally let myself lay out why.
She resented that I left North Carolina for school and came back on my own terms.
She resented that I made more than my brother.
She resented that I made decisions without consulting her.
And most of all — this is the one — she resented that my father put me on the accounts during his illness instead of her.
After he died, I became simultaneously the person she depended on and the person she blamed for having to depend on somebody.
I Asked Her Why She Thought I Owed Her, and We Finally Got to the Actual Argument
“Mom. Why do you think I owe you?”
Her eyes snapped up.
“I never said you owe me.”
“You remind me constantly that you sacrificed for me.”
“Because I did.“
“You chose to have children.”
“That doesn’t mean it was easy.”
“I never said it was easy.”
“You have no idea what I gave up.”
“And there it is.”
“What?”
“The bill.”
She frowned at me.
“What bill?”
“The invisible one you’ve been handing me since I was about nine years old.”
She shook her head.
“You’ve changed.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know who’s putting these ideas in your head. Daniel, probably.”
I nearly laughed. That man has been in this family for eight years and has somehow become responsible for every boundary I’ve ever set.
“Daniel didn’t cancel anything.”
“You canceled my health insurance.”
“I stopped paying a supplemental policy. You still have Medicare. You’ve always had Medicare.”
“My doctor—”
“Then find a plan you can afford, or ask Ryan to help.”
Her face went sharp immediately.
“Why are you dragging your brother into this?”
And That Answered the Last Question I Had
“You’re still protecting him.”
“I protect both my children.”
“No. You protect Ryan from responsibility and then call me responsible enough to carry it.”
“That isn’t true.”
“When Ryan got divorced, who paid the retainer?”
She didn’t say anything.
“Who paid the roof deductible?”
Nothing.
“Who covered the property tax shortage in 2023?”
Her lips went thin.
“Who paid the funeral home deposit for Dad while Ryan said he needed a week to move money around?”
“Stop keeping score, Emily.”
“I never kept score before. That was the mistake.”
She Stepped Closer and Said It Was About Money, and I Told Her the Truth
“So that’s what this is. It’s about money.”
“No. Money is just the part you noticed when I disappeared.”
That one landed. I watched it land.
She looked at me differently for the first time since she’d gotten out of the car.
“You didn’t call me at six in the morning because you missed me. Ryan didn’t drive to my office because he was upset that you hurt me. Everybody in this family panicked because some automatic payments stopped clearing.”
Tears came up in her eyes.
Normally that ends every argument in my family. Historically, that is where I soften, apologize for making her cry, and write a check to restore the peace.
I felt that reflex come up in my chest.
And then I just — let it go by.
“I Am Your Mother,” She Said. “You Only Get One.”
“Yes.”
“You only get one mother, Emily.”
“And you only had one daughter.”
Her eyes closed.
I hadn’t said it cruelly. I think that made it worse.
She picked up the grocery bag.
“What happens now?”
“You make a budget.”
“I mean us.”
I looked at her.
“I don’t know.”
“Are you telling me you never want to see me again?”
“No.”
She looked genuinely surprised by that.
“I’m telling you the old version of this is over.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning I don’t accept insults because you’re upset. I don’t pay bills because you won’t adjust your lifestyle. I don’t rescue Ryan. And I don’t sit at family dinners while everyone behaves like my value is measured in what I provide.”
She wiped her cheek.
“And if I can’t accept that?”
“Then we won’t have much of a relationship.”
She left without hugging me.
Three Weeks Later She Put the House on the Market, and the Numbers Told Everybody the Truth
Ryan called Daniel instead of me. Daniel told him not to put him in the middle and hung up.
She listed it at $489,000.
She owed less than seventy-six thousand.
Which means the woman everybody in three counties said was about to be made homeless by her ungrateful daughter had over four hundred thousand dollars of equity in a house she’d been telling people she could barely afford to keep the lights on in.
Nobody mentioned that part.
Two months later she accepted an offer. After fees and the payoff, she walked away with enough to buy a two-bedroom townhome outside Greensboro in cash and still have substantial savings.
Ryan was furious.
Publicly, he was supportive.
Privately he told a cousin I had “destroyed Dad’s legacy,” which was a fascinating way to describe a house our father bought in 1994 and which my brother had contributed exactly nothing toward for thirty years.
What he meant was that it wasn’t going to be his someday.
She Moved in September and I Didn’t Help, Which Shocked Everybody Including Me
Ryan rented a truck.
Melissa packed the kitchen.
Aunt Patricia labeled boxes.
Mom hired movers for the heavy furniture out of her own money, which she had.
And every single thing got done, on schedule, without one phone call to me.
That may have been the single most important thing that happened all year.
The world kept turning without Emily solving it.
In October She Called From Her Own Number and Asked Me to Sunday Dinner
I’d unblocked her weeks earlier without telling her.
“It’s me.”
“I know.”
A pause.
“I made chicken pot pie.”
“Okay.”
“I made too much.”
I understood what she was actually asking.
“When?”
“Sunday?”
I looked at Daniel on the couch. He glanced up and shrugged, leaving it to me.
“Sunday’s fine.”
Her New Place Was Smaller Than I Expected and She Gave Me a Tour Anyway
Not depressing. Just small. Clean. Quiet. Paid for.
“This room’s mine. That one’s for guests. There’s a little patio out back.”
“It’s nice, Mom.”
“I miss the old kitchen.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“This one’s easier to clean, though.”
We ate at a round table by the window. No flowers. No audience. No Ryan.
Halfway through, she put down her fork.
She Told Me She’d Been Seeing a Counselor, and Then She Told Me Something True
“She asked me why I said what I said to you.”
“And?”
Mom looked at her plate.
“I said because I was angry.”
I waited.
“She kept asking why.”
Then she looked up at me.
“I think I wanted to hurt you.”
That sat between us for a second.
And strangely — genuinely strangely — it hurt less than every excuse had.
“Why?”
“Because you can leave.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“You can walk away from things. Jobs. People. Situations. Your father could do that too, emotionally — he could just go somewhere else in his head. I never could. Not once in seventy years.”
“That doesn’t explain—”
“I know it doesn’t.”
She was running her thumb along the edge of her napkin.
“When your father died, I felt like he’d left me. And then you stepped in and handled everything. The bills, the contractors, the insurance. I needed you.”
She stopped.
“And I hated needing you.”
That Was the First Honest Thing She Had Said About Our Relationship in Years
“So you punished me for helping.”
“I think I did. Yes.”
She looked embarrassed.
“I’m not proud of it.”
And I did not rush to comfort her, which is the single hardest thing I have ever done at a dinner table.
That wasn’t my job. It was never my job. It had just always been my assignment.
“I also treated your brother differently,” she said.
“Yes. You did.”
“He reminds me of myself.”
“That explains a great deal.”
She almost smiled.
Then She Told Me She Was Changing Her Will and I Told Her This Wasn’t About Money
“I told Ryan I’m changing the will.”
I put my glass down.
“Mom, this was never about an inheritance.”
“I know. Let me finish.”
I waited.
“Whatever’s left when I’m gone gets divided equally.”
“It should.”
“But the important part is that he knows now. There isn’t a house waiting for him. He’s forty-one years old and he has to handle his own life.”
I nodded.
“He’s not going to like that.”
“He doesn’t.”
And we both laughed. Small, awkward, and completely genuine.
It Did Not Magically Repair Itself, and I Want to Be Honest About the Months After
There was no embrace. No speech. No moment.
We were careful with each other for months, the way you are with something that just came out of a cast.
She slipped back into old patterns. The first time she complained I hadn’t called enough, I said, “If you miss me, you’re allowed to call me too.”
She went quiet for a second.
Three days later she called.
When her car needed tires that winter, she told me what they cost.
I waited for the ask.
It didn’t come. She paid for them herself.
And when Ryan asked me for six thousand dollars for what he described as a temporary business situation, I said no.
He didn’t speak to me for four months.
I survived that. So did he. He also, as far as I can tell, resolved the temporary business situation, which is interesting.
By the Next Mother’s Day We Had Built Something Different, and She Said Something I Didn’t Expect
Daniel and I drove to Greensboro and took her to lunch. Just the three of us.
When dessert came, she looked across the table.
“One year.”
“One year.”
“I think about that day all the time.”
“So do I.”
She swallowed.
“I’m really sorry, Emily.”
And this time nothing came after it.
No but. No explanation. No reminder of what she’d given up. No request that I say something back.
I believed her.
“I know.”
She reached across the table and I let her take my hand.
Then she said:
“Losing your money probably saved our relationship.”
Daniel nearly choked on his coffee.
I laughed. She laughed.
“I mean it. As long as you were fixing everything, none of us ever had to look at what we were doing to you.”
Here’s What I Actually Figured Out, and It Took Me a Year
At the time, I thought stopping the payments was revenge.
It wasn’t. It was information.
The moment that money stopped, every person in my family showed me — inside of about eighteen hours — exactly what they had actually valued.
Ryan valued security. Specifically, his.
My mother valued control.
The extended family valued keeping the conflict away from their own doorsteps.
And I had valued being needed, because somewhere back around twenty-five I had confused being useful with being loved, and I built an entire adult life on top of that confusion.
Thirty-one thousand dollars a year on top of it.
What Changed for Each of Us Is Not What Anybody Would Have Predicted
My mother learned to live inside her actual income at sixty-eight, and she is genuinely better at it than any of us expected.
My brother learned I am not an emergency fund. That took four silent months and I’d do it again.
Daniel got to stop watching his wife quietly finance everybody else’s comfort out of our future, which he had never once complained about and which I now understand cost him something.
And I learned the hard one.
Walking away is not always ending a relationship.
Sometimes it is the only way to find out whether a relationship can survive without fear, guilt, obligation, and money holding it up.
Ours could. Barely. But it could.
Outside the Restaurant She Hugged Me Next to the Same SUV
One year earlier I had gotten into that vehicle after telling my mother to live as though she didn’t have a daughter.
She stepped back and smiled.
“Drive safe.”
“I will.”
“Text me when you get home.”
I raised an eyebrow at her.
She laughed.
“Request. Not a command.”
“Better.”
Daniel opened the passenger door.
And before I got in, she called after me.
“Emily?”
I turned around.
“I’m glad you’re my daughter.”
I stood there and looked at her.
A year earlier those words would have taken me apart. I’d have cried in the parking lot.
They didn’t do that anymore.
And I think that’s exactly why I could finally take them.
“I’m glad you’re my mother,” I said.
Then: “Most days.”
She laughed out loud.
“Fair enough.”
I got in. As we pulled out, Daniel looked over.
“You okay?”
I watched her get smaller in the side mirror.
“Yeah.”
And this time I meant it.
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