I used to hate that coat. The shame burned like frostbite every time my mother walked beside me in it, her sleeves frayed, buttons mismatched, her shoulders squared as if she didn’t notice the stares. I walked ahead, pretending I didn’t care, pretending she didn’t care. I thought the coat made us look poor, made me look small, made everything about us feel less than. I never once asked why she never replaced it, never wondered what she gave up to keep me warm while she stayed cold. I mistook her silence for indifference, her stubbornness for pride, and I let the distance between us widen stitch by sti… Continues…
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