How Much Do I Mean?

Audrey

“Do I?” he asked tersely. “Here’s what I know, Audrey: you left me to go dance. Once, when you went off to college, and again a couple of months ago. I’d never want to keep you from dance, but you didn’t have to cut me out of your life entirely each time. Here’s what else I know: as soon as you have the chance, you’ll be out of here again, even if it means taking my kid off with you to France or wherever else. I was ready to follow you over there, and you didn’t even want to listen to that suggestion or any other. So how much can I really mean to you?”

His tone was bitter, and I curled in on myself. He was right, of course. I had done a terrible job of showing him how much I cared. I opened my mouth to say something else, but I couldn’t even think of where to start. Another couple of tears slipped down my cheeks, and Jesse made a noise of frustration.

“Look, let’s just cool it for now. We’ll talk later,” he said, but the way that he said it made it sound like if he had his way,