Words are cheap. We all know this. But a body on the ground is not cheap. A body on the ground is a risk—of humiliation, of rejection, of being seen as weak. My mother had never taken that risk with me before. She had never shown me anything but competence and control. Seeing her willing to be seen as foolish, as pathetic even, was more convincing than any speech could have been.

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But something shifted in the architecture of us. The mountain did not move, but it cracked, and through that crack, light began to seep. She tries now. When she feels the old patterns rising—the deflection, the justification, the coldness—she catches herself more often than she used to. Sometimes she even says, out loud, "I'm doing it again, aren't I? The thing where I make it about me."

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