MISTRESS OF THE GAME
I stayed there, staring, my mind drifting between anger and sorrow.
After a while, she stirred. Her eyelids fluttered, and then her voice, weak but unmistakable, broke the silence. “Marie, is that you?”
My throat tightened. I turned on the voice recorder on my phone without thinking. “Yes. It’s me. Marie.”
She let out a shaky sigh. “Oh, my daughter. Thank goodness. You’ve grown to be such a beautiful, brilliant lady.”
Anger surged through me, mixing with the tears. “And how exactly do you know that? You don’t have the right to call me your daughter. You lost that right when you left me out on the street to fend for myself.”
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