“Don’t look at me like that, Madeline. I’m trying very hard to give you the space you want. Going against my own nature. Respecting your need for distance.”
He’s right, and I feel embarrassed for sending mixed messages.
Taking a deep breath, I fake a smile.
Isn’t this what I wanted? The freedom to choose? The confirmation that I could leave if I wished to? Then why does it feel so wrong to leave?
Because it’s more comfortable to stay. Safer not to take a risk.
I don’t want to be that kind of person. The one who stays because she’s afraid to walk alone. I need to at least try to take a few steps.
I walk up to where he stands and stare into his eyes. “I love you.”
“Ya ba’ad shabdi[23], Madeline.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t think you’re ready to find out yet.” He reaches out to touch my face. “One day, I will tell you. I’ll be waiting for you,habibti[24]. Take care of yourself and our child too.”
Chapter 53
Boston
Three days later
I step out of the car with my heart racing and my hands freezing, eager to leave, but I know I need to close this chapter. Two days ago, I arrived at Zoe’s house, and since then, I’ve only been communicating with Kamal through texts. He sends them in the morning and at night, and I imagine how difficult it must be for him to resist calling me, because he once told me he despised texting. In his own words, they were ‘too impersonal.’
“Good afternoon, Miss Turner. It’s a pleasure to have you back, miss.”
“Thank you, Kataina,” I greet my parents’ maid. I know they had to let go of most of the staff, and it doesn’t surprise me that Kataina’s still here, since she’s one of the few who can put up with my mother without going insane.
“Your mother is waiting for you in the living room.”
I follow her, feeling like a visitor rather than someone who lived in this house all her life.
As I walk, I notice the empty walls where the artworks used to be. Even the Persian rugs were taken away by the bank.
A part of my heart cries, sad at seeing a part of my life disappearing, because even though they were just things, they were my memories too.
Then I remember the thousands of people whose lives my father played with when he stole their money.
Since I arrived in Boston, I have been following the news in the papers, and embarrassment doesn’t even come close to explaining how I feel.
“Hello, you ungrateful child. You finally came to visit us.”
I take a deep breath as I stand face-to-face with my mother. I prepared myself for this encounter—or should I say sparring match?—and promised myself I wouldn’t let her get to me, but Adley Turner-Miller is an expert at driving me mad.
“Hello, Mom.” I walk closer and bend down to kiss her on the cheek, since she didn’t make any effort to get up.
“You don’t look pregnant.”
“It’s still early. How are you both?”
“How do you think? Embarrassed. Humiliated. Forgotten.”
I stare at the woman who gave me life. She is not the same person I said goodbye to when I left for London. Her face has no trace of makeup, and her short brown hair, which is its natural color, unlike mine, although in a Chanel cut, has lost its shine.
She’s wearing a silk robe over her nightgown, which is strange because I’ve never seen my mother in sleepwear during the day.
