If I were you, I’d return that money to Davis,” she said. “You don’t want to feel indebted to him.”
“But I’m not you,” I said. “And I don’t.” After a second, she said, “That’s true. You’re not.”
I waited for her to say something more, to tell me why I was wrong to keep the money.
At last, she said, “Your life is yours, Aza, but I think if you look at your mental health the last couple months...”
“The money didn’t cause that. I’ve been sick for a long time.” “Not like this. I need you to be well, Aza. I can’t lose—”
“God, Mom, please stop saying that. I know you’re not trying to make me feel pressure,
but it feels like I’m hurting you, like I’m committing assault or something, and it makes me feel ten thousand times worse.
I’m doing my best, but I can’t stay sane for you, okay?”
After a minute she said, “The day you came home after the accident, I carried you to the bathroom,
and I carried you back to bed and tucked the covers up to your chin, and I realized that I’ll probably never pick you up again.
You’re right. I keep saying I can’t lose you, but I will. I am. And that’s a hard thought.
That’s a hard, hard thought. But you’re right. You’re not me. You make your own choices.
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