It started with cilantro scissors.

We were in the kitchen, my mum freshly sober and beaming with Pinterest-level optimism, showing me how to mince herbs the “right” way. She’d never cooked for me growing up – never packed a lunch, never stirred soup.

But that week, she was in full redemption mode: shopping at Whole Foods, binge-watching feel-good movies and promising to be the mum I always needed.

Just six months earlier, she’d been living in Texas – trapped in a cycle of alcohol, drugs and eviction notices. She and her husband were broke, desperate and spiralling. Then their trailer caught fire, and they ended up at my grandmother’s in Louisiana.

Somewhere between rock bottom and a megachurch that specialised in redemption arcs, she found sobriety. And Jesus.

My grandmother called to say, “She’s really changed. You’re going to be so impressed. Just wait.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, still deciding whether to believe my grandmother or protect myself. After all, my mum was the same woman who once told me I was the source of her greatest pain. Who fidgeted and picked at the scabs on her chest at my wedding. Who cried herself to sleep after benders, while I, still a child, watched helplessly.

And yet, when she called to ask if she could visit – for the first time in years – something in her voice felt different.

At the pocket-sized airport, I saw her before she saw me. She was glowing. Steady. Her body didn’t flinch when she hugged me. Her eyes were bright, and her skin looked healthy. She talked about her new plant-based diet and offered to teach me how to cook.

“I know I never cooked you anything growing up,” she said. “But we can make up for it now. Is there a Whole Foods nearby?”

Whole Foods?

Who was this woman – and what had she done with my mum?

We spent the next few days immersed in low-key joy. No bars. No alcohol. Just T.J. Maxx, beauty aisles and grocery runs.

“Have you been to Costco?” she asked, eyes wide, then led me down every aisle like it was Disneyland for adults. She paid for everything: garlic grinders, glass Tupperware, bulk hummus. I didn’t ask where the money came from. Her husband – sober now, too – had gone back to work in the oil fields. She wanted to take care of me. And for the first time in a long time, I let her.

Was this what regular mums did?

I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. But that week, it didn’t. The healing was real. The trust… still under construction.

It felt surreal – like I’d stepped into........

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