I wasn’t snooping. Not really.

We were at the kitchen table, buried in my mock exam prep. She was helping me revise economics—her “I’m not an expert, but I’ll figure it out” face fully activated. We were surrounded by highlighters, scattered papers, and a bowl that had somehow become a graveyard for every flyer that ever entered this house.

She was using my laptop because hers “takes a year to open a tab,” and she’d logged into her email to pull up a sample case study for me. But then she left to grab tea, and her inbox just… sat there. Open.

I didn’t mean to look. I swear. But one subject line stood out in bold:

“Re: Final Approval—Relocation Confirmed”

I clicked.

The thread was short. A congratulatory message from a recruiter. Mention of a signed contract. A new city. A start date in two weeks.

And not one single word to me.

I just sat there, heart banging, as everything around me—the notes, the test prep, her—blurred into static. She walked back in with two mugs and smiled like nothing was about to explode.

“Right,” she said, “let’s figure out this elasticity thing.”

But all I could do was stare at her hands. The same hands that tucked me in when Dad left. That fought with school counselors. That literally held me through panic attacks.

And now… those hands were about to pack up and go without even telling me.

I opened my mouth to say something, but just then—her phone lit up.

It was him.

“Christopher 💛”

The emoji made my stomach turn. I’d never heard that name before.

I couldn’t stop myself. “Who’s Christopher?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light.

She looked up a little too quickly. “Oh, just someone from work. You don’t know him.”

She slid her phone face down. That tiny movement, more than anything, told me she was hiding something.

I didn’t sleep that night.

My mom and I had always been close. It was the kind of closeness born from being the only ones left standing after life blew everything else up. Dad left when I was eight, remarried by the time I turned ten. We didn’t talk much. I stopped calling him “Dad” somewhere around freshman year. So it had been just me and her. All our traditions, inside jokes, late-night movies, pancake Sundays—suddenly they felt fragile, breakable.

The next morning, she was humming while scrambling eggs. I couldn’t take it.

“So… are you moving?” I asked.

The humming stopped.

She turned slowly. “What?”

“I saw the email. The one about the job. Relocation. Two weeks.”

She looked like I’d slapped her. “You read my email?”

“It was on my laptop! I wasn’t trying to snoop, but it was right there. And you didn’t say anything? You were just going to leave? What about me?”

Her eyes glistened. “Ellis, I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I just… I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“You weren’t going to tell me!”

“I was!” she snapped, then instantly softened. “I was trying to find the right time. I didn’t want to dump it on you during exams.”

“Oh, that makes it so much better,” I muttered, backing away. “And Christopher? Is that part of this too?”

She froze.

And that was all the confirmation I needed.

I didn’t say another word. I grabbed my backpack and left.

The next few days were a blur of going through the motions—school, practice tests, half-eaten dinners. We barely spoke. She tried to bridge the silence with small talk and soft gestures. But I was numb. Angry. Betrayed. And scared.

What was I supposed to do if she left? Move with her? Leave my friends, my school, the only life I’d known? Or stay behind, suddenly an adult because she decided to start over with him?

And then, Friday afternoon, I got a call that changed everything.

From my dad.

“Hey, El,” he said, voice unusually calm. “You, uh, talked to your mom lately?”

“Not really. Why?”

He sighed. “She called me.”

That stopped me cold.

“She said she’s thinking of moving. Asked if I’d consider having you for the rest of the year.”

“What?” My voice cracked.

“She didn’t want to blindside you,” he continued. “Said she was offered a promotion, out in Seattle. Said it was… complicated.”

“She was going to leave me behind,” I whispered.

“She told me she didn’t want to drag you into her new life if it wasn’t solid yet. Didn’t want to force you to uproot everything for something she’s not even sure about.”

That hit harder than I expected. “So what, I’m just baggage now?”

“No,” he said gently. “I think she’s trying to figure out how to do the right thing. Even if she’s doing it badly.”

I stared at the floor, everything spinning.

After we hung up, I walked home. I don’t even remember how I got there.

She was sitting on the couch, still in her work clothes, a cup of untouched tea in her hands. When she saw me, she stood up.

“I talked to Dad,” I said.

She nodded, eyes tired. “I figured he’d call.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” My voice cracked. “We’re supposed to be a team.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I was scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of you hating me. Of choosing wrong. Of losing you.”

That last part hit harder than I wanted it to.

“I don’t hate you,” I said. “But you should’ve trusted me.”

She walked over and sat on the floor in front of me, like she used to when I was little and scared of storms.

“I got offered the job. It’s a big deal, and I’d be leading a new department. Christopher is… yes, someone I’ve been seeing. Quietly. I didn’t want to bring him into your life until I was sure. And I’m still not sure.”

I looked at her, trying to read her expression. “So you’re not leaving?”

She hesitated. “I haven’t signed anything. Yet.”

For a long time, neither of us spoke.

Then I said, “What if I stayed here? With Dad. Finished the year. And we figure it out after that?”

Her eyes filled again. “Would you be okay with that?”

“I don’t know. But it feels better than waking up and finding you gone.”

She nodded. “Then we’ll do that. Together.”

That night, we made pancakes. No music, no jokes—but it was a start.

A week later, she officially accepted the job. I stayed with Dad, moved into the guest room with the hideous plaid sheets, and started calling her every night before bed. At first it was weird. Then less weird. Then kind of comforting.

She still sends me economics memes. I still roll my eyes.

We’re not perfect. But we’re honest now.

And when I visited her in Seattle over spring break, I met Christopher. He brought me my favorite cake. He seemed nervous. It was awkward. But not awful.

Later that night, she and I sat on her tiny balcony, wrapped in two too-small blankets.

“I thought I lost you,” she said quietly.

“You almost did,” I said. “But you didn’t.”

Sometimes the hardest part of growing up isn’t realizing your parents are human—it’s realizing they’re allowed to move on too.

Would you have forgiven her?

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