prologue
Austin Hart
Malibu Addiction Recovery Center
No one ever came for me.
Being raised by a teen mom, I learned early that love doesn’t always look like sitting in the bleachers or being first in line at school pickup. It’s the late-night diner shifts, the fridge stocked, the bills in a neat pile on the kitchen counter because she made sure nothing got shut off.
I had a good childhood. I did. There was always food on the table, clothes that fit, a bed I could crawl into without wondering if it’d still be mine in the morning. But there were gaps—moments where I’d glance at the crowd in a hockey arena or scan a school assembly and feel the space where she should’ve been. I understood why she wasn’t there. She was busy making sure I could keep playing in the first place. But understanding doesn’t erase the ache.
Sitting here, at Family Day for my last year, I had the same ache in my chest. I told myself I’d stop caring if anyone showed up. Told myself it didn’t matter. But every time the doorsopened, some stubborn part of me still looked up and hoped they’d walk through. That they’d love me enough to come.
They never fucking did.
The cafeteria smelled like burnt coffee and whatever they’d overcooked for lunch—meatloaf maybe, or something that had started as meatloaf in theory but ended up as some beige unrecognizable slab on a paper plate. People hugged, kissed cheeks, whispered promises they’d probably break by next week.
I sat alone, elbows on my knees, counting the tiles on the floor to give myself something to do.
I saw a woman walking down the hall, and I had to do a double-take because she looked exactly like my mother. The same curly hair, blue eyes...
“Shit. Mom?”
She walked at her own pace, not rushing the way some of the other visitors did. With one hand, she gave me a small wave, the other dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a crumpled tissue.
I didn’t get up to hug her because I couldn’t. My legs were locked in place. She sat across from me, the chair legs screeching against the tile.
“Ledger didn’t come.”
“I figured.”
“He stayed home with Evie. She turned one yesterday.”
I looked past her, focusing on the clock on the wall instead of the ache crawling up my chest.
“Happy birthday to her,” I mumbled.
“You look . . . better.”
“I’m not dead.”
She winced and twisted her hands in her lap, fingers worrying at the edge of the tissue until it started to shred.
“When you first came here... I didn’t know what to do. I talked to a friend—someone who’s been through this with her own kid—and she told me that sometimes the best thing youcan do is give space. Let the person figure it out without you hovering. So I thought that’s what I’d do. Give you space. Step back.”
I raised a brow. “You thought disappearing would help?”
“I thought... you’d know I still loved you even if I wasn’t here every week. That you’d understand I was trying to give you room to breathe. But I went too far. I see that now. I’m sorry.”
The tissue in her hand was in pieces now, her nails digging into the skin of her palm.
“You didn’t come the first month. Do you have any idea how that felt? Sitting here, watching other people get visitors, and no one come through the door for me?”
Her chin trembled, and she shook her head. “I was scared, Austin. Scared I’d say the wrong thing, scared I’d get angry and make you defensive, scared you’d push me away for good if I pushed too soon. And part of me... part of me didn’t know if I could handle seeing you like this. That’s selfish, I know.”
“It’s honest.”
She swallowed hard. “I’m not proud of the distance. I missed you. Every single day. But I thought keeping my distance was the best way to support you without enabling you. That’s what therapy told me. That’s what my friend told me. I didn’t realize it would make you feel like I’d given up on you.”
