“That’s not true—”
“It is.” She doesn’t raise her voice, but the words sting anyway. “Even after everything. After the bruises. After the police came. You still looked at him like he was some hero.”
I look down at my hands. “He’s my dad.”
“And I am your mother.”
There’s no accusation in her tone—just exhaustion.
She takes a sip of her tea. “He hurt you too, you know.”
I nod. Slowly. “I know.”
But the truth is, I spent years pretending his temper wasn’t that bad. That if I stayed quiet, didn’t argue, maybe he’d stop. I used to cover the sound of him yelling by turning up my music.
I used to pretend not to see the marks on Mom’s wrists. I used to cover up my own bruises anyway.
And when the trust fund news came—when the money from my father’s will was locked under my name—Mom left.
That was the night everything cracked.
“I thought you’d hate me,” I say.
“I did,” she admits softly. “For a while. But mostly, I was angry that you sided with him. You saw what he did to us, and you picked him. I know you still visit him in prison. I know that, Chloe.”
Her voice breaks just enough to make me look up.
“I wanted you to choose yourself,” she says. “Instead, you chose him.”
The words hit somewhere deep.
Maybe because she’s right.
Maybe because I’ve been choosing the wrong men my whole damn life.
Outside, the sky turns the color of wine. A breeze slips through the open window, cool and clean.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Mom nods once, her jaw trembling.
We sit there, the silence gentler now. Two women bound by the same ghosts, trying to find new names for the hurt.
When she finally smiles, it’s small but real. “You look tired. Go rest. The guest room is at the end of the hall.”
I stand, my legs unsteady.
As I reach the door, she says, “Chloe?”
I turn.
“For what it’s worth,” she says, “him being locked up might be the best thing that ever happened to us. At least we are safe now.”
19
Miles
Islidetheduffelbag across the table. The heavy thud it makes against the wood echoes through the garage like a heartbeat I can’t shut up. Victor doesn’t even flinch. He just leans back in his chair, cigarette hanging from his lips, smoke coiling upward into the naked bulb light.
