But I haven’t touched it once. Not since he gave it to me—nearly two weeks ago. I’d just stared at it then, like it was some kind of foreign object, like I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to keep it or frame it.
So maybe today… Maybe I want to try. Not for anything extravagant. Just a little something fun. With my best friend.
Another call buzzes through my phone and startles me just as I unlock my apartment door.
I glance down.
Mom.
FaceTime.
I let out a sigh and head towards the kitchen. Setting my bag down, I prop the phone against a coffee mug on the kitchen counter so it won’t slip, and hit accept.
Her face fills the screen and something in me stutters.
This is the woman I used to love more than anything. The woman whose hands once held mine so tightly, like she’d never let go. Now, all I see is a version of her I’ve been trying to unsee for years.
Still beautiful, yes. Always was. Her features are softer than the last time I saw her, less drawn, less brittle. But her eyes are troubled and stormy in a way that makes my stomach twist.
I raise a brow and sign, “What is it?”
She lifts her hands to reply, but I shake my head and tap my ear. Hearing aids are on.
She nods, exhales slowly. “Is Tyler there with you?”
My brows knit. The question is unexpected.
“He’s not,” I sign.“Why? What’s going on?”
Her lips press together tightly. She glances away from the screen for a beat, then back at me, something unreadable flickering in her eyes.
“I need you to come home, Lucas,” she says, voice low. “There’s something I have to tell you. Something… big. And I don’t think you’ll be able to handle it alone.”
My stomach drops.
The urge to shut down rises in me, fast and familiar. I narrow my eyes, studying her through the screen. She looks twitchy, distracted. Her blonde bangs are damp with sweat, and she keeps fidgeting like her skin doesn’t quite fit right.
“Are you high?” I sign, expression hardening.
Her nostrils flare slightly, and she exhales, long and sharp like she’s trying not to explode.
“I’m not high,” she says, clearly offended. “And I’m not drunk either. God, Lucas, stop treating me like I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“Well, you’re not saying anything.” I sign it flatly. “What do you want from me?”
For a moment, there’s silence. Then I see tears gathering slowly in her eyes, glassy and stubborn. She blinks them away, but I notice.
“Lucas,” she says softly now, like she’s not sure if I’ll hang up. “Please… for once, just listen to me. Come home. I know I’vemessed up, I know I’m not the mother you wanted but this… this is important. For both of us.”
Something in her voice breaks me.
It’s not just desperation—it’s fear. Real, bone-deep fear. Like whatever she’s about to say is heavy enough to shatter either her or me. Or both. It coils in my gut, tight and suffocating. What could be so urgent? What could be so bad that she looks like she’s unraveling right in front of me?
And the worst part? The part I wish I could erase?
Is that I still care for her
After everything. After the years of silence, the coldness, the screaming matches, and slammed doors. After what her ex-boyfriend’s son did to me, the way she looked the other way, the way she pretended not to see me falling apart, there’s still a part of me that aches for her. Still a part that wants to believe she’s trying this time.
