“A monster,” I finish, voice flat as a blade.“And you can save the revisionism for someone stupid enough to buy it.I’m not your audience and neither is she.”I say pointing at Mom who looks shaken.
“Nate…” Mom whispers but she doesn’t reach for me.She knows better than to touch a live wire.
But I’ve fucking had it.
I held my mother while she cried in rooms that felt too small to hold that kind of pain.I’ve watched her rebuild herself from rubble she didn’t make.
And I’m done letting anyone—especially Moira fucking Sullivan—undo that.
Moira’s composure fractures for the first time.
The rage beneath the surface shows, ugly and real.Her hands shake as she adjusts her hair, her jewelry, her mask but doesn’t say another word.Just spins on her heel and gets in the Mercedes, slamming the door harder than she means to.
The car glides away like she’s fleeing the scene of her own crime.Silence settles heavy around us and Mom finally exhales—too slow, too tired.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, though I don’t know what she thinks she needs to apologize for.
“I’m not,” I say.
Not one fucking bit.
She huffs a small, startled laugh.The kind that sounds like it hurts.
We start walking back to the car, apricots rustling in the bag.But even with distance between us and Moira, I can see Mom folding inward again, carrying twenty years of someone else’s cruelty on shoulders that should’ve been held, not weighed down.
“Mom,” I say quietly, stopping her.“You know everything she says is a lie, right?”
Her eyes meet mine—empty in a way that guts me.Carved out and tired yet still fighting ghosts that shouldn’t be hers to battle.
She nods, voice small.“I love you, my sweet boy.”
Standing there I realize something sharp and painful: Mom and I we’ve been surviving each other’s grief for years.But as she straightens beside me, trying to reclaim whatever pieces Moira shook loose, I feel something settle in my chest—heavy, definite.
I’m done letting the Sullivans define who we are or what we deserve.
Done letting them pretend their cruelty is tradition.
Done letting them waltz back into our lives and try to ruin what little we’ve managed to rebuild.
If they want a war, they can have one because we’re not the same people we were years ago.
We’re stronger now.
And I’m not letting them take another piece of her.
CHAPTER19
OPEN DOORS
NORA
The brass bellabove Corrigan’s door gives its familiar little chime—the same soft note it’s had since I was twelve and Jake dared me to steal a donut.
I didn’t; he put his allowance on the counter when I froze.
I’m sitting in the window seat, hands wrapped around coffee that went cold long before I admitted it.The clock ticks past noon and he’s three minutes late.
There’s this rational part of me whispering,He’s not coming,but then there’s the other voice—the one that remembers the boy who used to save me the last cinnamon roll even when Lydia swore I’d “ruin my dinner.”
