He looked up, tears spilling over.

“I wanted you to have those back. Not as a resource. As a symbol of who you actually are. You’re not just a ‘mom’ to be used.

You’re Theresa. You’re a person. I am so deeply sorry.”

I looked at the earrings, then at the man across from me — bruised, exhausted, humbled. He’d been broken down to his foundation, and he had rebuilt himself.

I reached across the table and touched his hand. His skin was rough, scarred from warehouse work. It felt startlingly like his father’s.

“Mom,” he choked out, “is there any way you can ever forgive me?”