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Crossing my legs, I roll my ankle, finally out of my walking boot and feeling like a snake that has shed a layer of skin.

“Good mobility.” I startle, hand flying to my chest as my mother approaches from behind.

“Hey, Mom,” I greet her and move to stand. “Yeah, it’s doing good. I have been doing the extra exercises you sent along.”

Dr. Lane looks me up and down, spending extra time on my ankle, then nods in approval. She reaches out with both arms, grabs my shoulders, and cocks her head to the side. “You look different. Good.”

I blink. That wasn’t the greeting I’d rehearsed for.

Reaching under her arms, I initiate the hug she is dancing around. She squeezes tightly, holding on longer than customary, before awkwardly dropping her arms and sitting on the opposite end of the booth.

“Tell me, how are things at the Corporation? What type of cases have you been working on in one of the biggest organizations in Oregon?” Pride permeates her words as we move into the comfortable feel of work conversation.

Placing my forearms on the table, I lace my fingers together and take a steadying breath. “Mom, I don’t work for the Durham Corporation.”

“But you said⁠—”

Placing my hand palm out, I say, “I know what I … inferred.” I meet her gaze, wanting to rip the Band-Aid off the wound I have let fester for too long. “I am actually working at the Durham Foundation, which specializes in placement for women and families suffering from domestically hostile situations. I help them navigate the legal system.”

My mother appears visibly stricken as her hand moves to her heart, leaning back against the cushioned seat. “I, uh, okay. That is a change of direction. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Dropping my hands to the table, sitting back to mimic her position, I say, “Because you have always talked about how important it was to be successful. To chase the next accommodation, get the next accolade. I grew up hearing about this award you won and that paper you co-authored.”

“I never pressured you into medicine, or into law, or any field,” she responds defensively.

“No,” I console, “You never pushed my field of study or career choice. However, you have hammered into me since I was a kid that whatever I did, I needed to be the best at it. And I was.” My breathing picks up as my hands move frantically. “I graduated valedictorian, captain of the debate team. Top five in my class at law school and found the best firm in Cascadia to work for.” I’m out of breath with the words I’ve been holding back for years.

“I know you have had an amazing career; I am so proud of you.” Mom beams as if her point is made.

“Doing all that? I barely had a life. I had headaches all the time. I couldn’t focus. I woke up every morning already exhausted.”

Mom perks up. “Why didn’t you ask me about this? Did you seek medical advice? What did they say?”

“Mom, I know you put a premium on being successful, that it’s the most important aspect of life. But what I want? My new goal? I’m trying to be happy.”

Her brows crease as her head tilts slightly. “I know, that’s all I ever wanted for you.”

“No, you always said you wanted me to be successful.”

“Exactly. Isn’t that the same thing?”

It has never occurred to me to ask if my mother was happy until this moment. I’m not sure she would have understood the question.

“No, Mom. It isn’t.”

“Oh.” She looks away. When she speaks, her voice is quieter than it has been. “For me, it’s the same.”

And I realize she’s right.

“I’ve always been career-driven. Focused. I’ve known exactly what I wanted to do since I saw your ojiichan tear his ACL when I was eleven. It has been all I could think about. Dream about.” She turns to me, an apology in her eyes. “I have never been maternal.”

I don’t argue with her. She’s right, and we both know it. Reaching over, I grab her hand, squeezing once.

“I want you to know that you are my greatest achievement. I am not a very good mother, but I never once regretted this role.”

Choked with emotion, I manage to get out, “I know. I never felt unloved by you.” Which is true. Not good enough? Yes. A burden at times? Of course. But unloved? Never.

“You deserved better. My biggest regret is not achieving that. Knowing I should do more but not being able to.”