“How much have you actually paid?”
Her eyes dart away.
“How much?”
Her shoulders fold in. “Twenty thousand.”
The air leaves me in a rush. My arms drop uselessly at my sides. Twenty. Out of nearly seventy-two thousand, I’ve bled into her hands these last two years.
The betrayal claws up my throat, bitter, choking, unrelenting.
When I was seventeen, my mother got herself into trouble with gambling. She owed the gambling house twenty thousand dollars. That should’ve been enough of a disaster on its own, but instead of asking for help or admitting defeat, she made it worse.
She went to a loan shark.
And not just for the twenty thousand she needed to cover her debt—but for forty. She had to pay eighty back to the loan shark, and she swore she’d pay it back, swore it was under control. But all she did was pay off what she owed the gambling house, then took the extra twenty and went straight back to gambling.
She never paid back the money.
I was furious. Beyond furious.
When I turned eighteen, I couldn’t take it anymore. I left the town and cut ties with her. Or at least, I thought I did.
But walking away didn’t free me. Months after I left, the loan sharks found me. They cornered me, threatened to kill me andher if the debt wasn’t paid. I hadn’t even been the one to borrow it, but suddenly it was my problem.
The head of the loan shark, Oliver, showed what he called mercy. Instead of demanding weekly payments, he agreed to let me pay three thousand a month. And from then on, that’s what I did. Month after month, without fail, I sent the money.
Three thousand. Every single month.
I thought she was paying it off. I thought I was keeping us both alive. And now she’s telling me she hasn’t been paying it? What the hell has she been doing all this time?
“So out of almost seventy-two thousand I’ve sent, you only paid back twenty?” My signs are jagged, almost violent, as though each one might cut me open.
“Lucas, please.” She reaches for me, desperate. “They said they’d come for you. If I don’t pay, they’ll find you. I didn’t mean for it to get this bad. I swear I didn’t.”
I rip away from her touch like it burns. My heart hammers, fury strangling me.
“You let them put a target on my back—again?”
Tears streak her face, shame carving deep lines into her expression.
The room tilts. Dingy walls, threadbare carpet, the half-empty beer can on the counter. The smell of stale cigarettes clings to the air. Déjà vu swallows me whole. Fifteen years old again, bruised and broken, trapped in this same goddamn room.
“I didn’t know what else to do,” she whispers.
My hands shake, but the words come anyway. “You’re a coward.”
It slices through the air, colder than a blade. She stares at me, stunned, like she doesn’t recognize me. Maybe she shouldn’t, maybe I don’t even recognize myself. Then her face hardens, lips curling with bitter defiance.
“I know you hate me. But I’m still your mother. I was there for you.”
“No, you weren’t.” My signs are sharp, vicious. My voice would fail me if I tried to scream, but my hands scream for me.
“I was,” she snaps. “I gave everything for you. Your surgery—every penny I had, I spent it to save you. I brought you back to life.”
A laugh bursts from me, silent and jagged, ripping through my chest.
“Why was I in surgery in the first place?” My signs are knives now, precise and merciless. “Because of you. Because of your choices. I will blame you for as long as I breathe.”
