"Are you trying to be kind to yourself?"
This is why I almost did not call. My mother is funny until she is devastating, and she rarely gives warning before the shift.
"I disclosed the professional conflict," I say, because when cornered emotionally I apparently present compliance findings.
"Caleb."
"Everything is documented. I am recused from all decisions that affect him. His evaluation is with the GM now. Compliance has the timeline. There is no active professional authority."
"Caleb."
I stop.
"I did the ethical thing."
"I believe you."
"It may still hurt him."
"Yes."
That yes is the worst thing she could have said and the most honest. I lower my hand from my face. The apartment is too bright. I turn off the kitchen light. The room softens.
"He left," I say.
My mother does not speak.
"After. He left."
The word after carries more than I intended. Soo-jin hears all of it. I know she does because her voice, when it comes, is careful in a way my mother is not careful unless she understands the floor is unstable.
"Did you want him to stay?"
"Yes."
"Did you ask?"
"No."
"Why?"
Because if I asked and he left anyway, the leaving would have a shape. Because asking would make my want another thing he had to survive. Because he gave me what he could and it was not enough and I am trying not to punish him for having limits I can see but not move.
"I don't think he could have," I say.
"Stayed?"
"Been asked."
She exhales softly. "Ah."
The syllable contains too much. Understanding. Concern. A mother's immediate dislike of anyone who might hurt her child, complicated by her recognition that people in pain do not always know where they are stepping.
"You like complicated men," she says.
"I like one complicated man."
The admission sits there. Not love. Not yet. Not aloud to her. But enough.
