Each step down the sidewalk felt heavy, as if she were dragging not just luggage but an entire lifetime of quiet sacrifices behind her.
She walked until she reached the corner.
Only when she was certain no one from the house could see her anymore did she place the bags down on the curb.
Under the shade of a tree, Margaret covered her face with her hands and finally cried.
It wasn’t a loud cry.
It was soft, suffocating, desperate.
She wasn’t crying because she had nowhere to go.
She wasn’t crying because she had no money.
She cried because of the deepest wound a mother can feel:
being forgotten by her own child.
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