I thought I’d moved on—years after my MIL forced us out, I rebuilt my home, healed in peace. But one afternoon, strolling past her old neighborhood, I froze: she was at the curb, sifting through the trash, fingertips skimming discarded wrappers and cans as if hunting lost memories.
My breath caught. I remembered that night: baby bundled, heart pounding, as she threw us onto the street. Now, her hands were dredging through refuse, reclaiming what we threw away—the literal and symbolic.
I didn’t linger. Tears blurred my vision. But those moments etched deeper scars. She wasn’t just digging through garbage. She was unearthing our past—from pain, resilience. I realized: my journey wasn’t defined by her, but by ending the cycle. I’ll keep walking, leaving old wounds—and refuse—behind.
