“What are you doing?” Milo muttered.
“I’m waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“For you to get up.”
His face froze for a split second as if the neurons inside were struggling to make the connection.
“I told you I’m getting up.”
“I heard you. Now I want you to do it.”
More silence.
“Pain in the ass...” he muttered, slinking back under the covers.
“Don’t speak to me like that, Milo!”
Tiphaine heaved a sigh; verbal confrontation was a direct line to a full-blown fight, and she didn’t have the heart for another one right now. Milo was fifteen. The age of rebellion and for getting into all kinds of trouble. She couldn’t possibly let him lounge around in bed any longer: his exams began the following day, and it was pretty clear his priorities were not the same as hers.
Tiphaine got to her feet, weighing up the pros and cons of the idea taking shape in her mind. Eventually she grabbed the quilt and yanked it toward her. Brutally deprived of his cozy, warm cocoon, the teenager sat up and bellowed:
“Hey! That’s not right. You can’t do that!”
“Get up!” she ordered, halfway out of the room already, dragging the comforter with her. She walked briskly down the corridor, aware of the shuffling sound of a body staggering out of bed.
“Give it back!” Milo yelled after her.
“Come and get it,” she replied without turning around.
She could sense Milo behind her reaching for the quilt. The next moment she almost toppled backward as he pulled it toward him. Thrown off balance, she had no choice but to let go. Milo angrily snatched up the comforter and gave her a filthy look.
“Don’t you ever do that again,” he snarled.
“Calm down, Milo!” she retorted, trying to regain the upper hand.
“You’re not my mother!” He’d already turned and was halfway back to his room.
“No, but I am your legal guardian. And, until you’re eighteen, I’m—” Tiphaine didn’t get a chance to finish her sentence. Milo slammed the door in her face.
“Responsible for you,” she muttered under her breath.
She was indeed responsible. For a great many things. Many more than she could bear to admit.
Many more than Milo would ever be able to forgive her for.
It had been like this for eight years. Eight years of being imprisoned in the abject desolation of guilt. Worse than prison. She’d learned to live with—had forced herself, up to a point, to cope with—the secrecy, guilt, and lies. In a way, it had simply been a matter of getting used to it. A matter of survival. Some obscure instinct held her thoughts in check every single day, kept her from sinking completely into madness. Most important of all, it enabled her to save what could be saved. In other words, Milo.
For eight years, the boy had been her sole reason for getting out of bed in the morning. Without him, she’d have put an end to her life long ago. She had made choices and done terrible things, and nothing had turned out as she had thought it would, deluded as she was by a grief that never dimmed, despite the passing of time. And whenever Milo, in moments of anger that with adolescence were growing increasingly frequent and intense, reminded her that they had no blood ties, Tiphaine had to struggle with all her might against the temptation to give up.
“You’re not my mother!”
And yet she had done everything to be that. Absolutely everything.
Including the worst thing of all.
Chapter 2
