“What happened?” Nick asked.
The words scrape out of me. “One day, I took it upon myself to make some macaroni, but when I opened the box, I saw tiny maggots inside.” My stomach twists just saying it. “I thought I could boil the noodles and kill them in the water, but I didn’t realize the milk was expired. I remember it tasting sour, but I was so hungry I ate it anyway.” My eyes fall to my feet. My voice thins. “I ate it anyway.”
I look back up, and Nick looks gutted.
“Jesus,” he mutters, like he’s trying not to say more, but the weight of the image hangs in the air between us.
“Guess that’s why I have such a strong stomach and can hold my alcohol,” I say with a hollow little laugh that doesn’t feel like mine.
“I assumed, I just thought…” Nick trails off, lost. Dismantled. He thought I came from privilege. Most people did. That’s what I let them believe. It was safer that way. Easier than showing the bones underneath. But the truth is, I’m a survivor. Just like him.
“I’m sorry,” he finally says.
“Richard promised to wipe all that away. A clean slate.” Her voice is distant, swaying, like she’s not fully in her body. She moves her arm through the air like she’s brushing off ghosts. “He promised us a fresh start. A good life. And that’s all I wanted for you, honey.” A broken sound escapes her lips—half laugh, half sob—and it slices through me.
“I was tired of seeing you so sad. A child should be happy and smile, and I couldn’t give that to you, so I thought, maybe…” Her voice catches as she swipes a tear from her cheek. “Maybe this was God answering my prayers. Because I did.” She looks down at her hands like they’ve betrayed her. Nick leans forward, quiet and gentle, grabbing the tissue box off the table. She takes one with trembling fingers. “I prayed every night,” she whispers, dabbing under her eyes. “That I would land a movie deal or find some way to get us out of that hellhole. And that’s when I met Richard.”
“That’s when you landed your first deal, and you came home screaming with joy.”
She nods, eyes glazed. “Ya. He thought I was too beautiful not to be on television.”
A small laugh bubbles up through her sniffles, fragile and haunting. “Later, when he found out I couldn’t act worth shit, he asked me to marry him, because he said he fell in love with me. And you.”
That’s when she lifts her gaze.
And I see her. Really see her.
Her eyes are bloodshot, raw, and rimmed in regret. Her wholeface is crumpled, carved by pain she’s carried for years in silence. I’ve never seen her like this. Not her—always painted, always poised, always pretending. But now she’s unraveling right in fron of me, and it wrecks something inside me.
I launch forward. My body slams into hers like I can hold her together with my arms alone.
“I’m so sorry, sweetie. I never thought he would—” Her voice shatters mid-sentence as sobs break free. Her body trembles against mine, and I hold her tighter, bury my face in her shoulder, squeeze my eyes shut like I can will my own tears away.
“We’ll be okay,” I whisper. “I’m not a little girl anymore. You don’t have to worry about me now.”
“I’m your mom.” She pulls back just enough to look at me, her face wet and streaked with grief. “I’ll always worry about you.”
“You know what I mean. It’s my turn to help you.” My hands rub up and down her arms, grounding us both. “And I know it’s not much, but you can stay here until we figure things out.”
She nods slowly, eyes flickering with something close to hope. “Ya, okay.”
Nick speaks softly from nearby. “Would you like for me to make you something to eat, Mrs. Thompson?”
“Please call me Michelle. I don’t want to be reminded of that damn last name.”
He sets the tissues back on the table, his presence warm and steady. “Michelle, I make a mean grilled sandwich.” I glance over my shoulder and give him the smallest smile.
“You probably need to eat something. And you, Mrs. Consele, need to check your blood sugar.”
I glance at the clock—midnight. Hours since I last checked. He’s right.
“Grilled cheese? That was your favorite as a kid.” Her voice softens, and I turn to her.
“I know, we’ve kind of made it our?—”
“Thing,” Nick finishes for me.
“Ya, it’s our thing.”
