My mother’s hand tentatively brushes away my hair. Out of instinct I shiver. I still don’t trust this woman. Her hands feel the same, just as gentle and sweet. I know I should hate her, and overall, I do; but deep inside my cold broken soul is the longing of the mother I use to have. I resist the urge and tell myself to ignore her. This is the woman who left me to die, who didn’t care if I never saw another day. This is the woman who turned me could inside, told me lies, and never came to save me. I can’t forgive her so soon, so instead I slap her hand away. I hear her breath in, feel her hand move away. I shouldn’t have done that, I think, but shake the thought away. From the corner of my eye I see the tears in her eyes as she leaves the room. Good. I hope she cries. But deep inside me, in the place where I once loved my mother, wishes I had let her stay.