He’s not worth it.
The words hit me like a dagger to the chest, but it’s Kate’s lack of retort that drives it deeper.
I’ve never heard a silencethisloud.
Her mother smooths the back of Kate’s hair as she stands still in her embrace. “You’d be a fool to consider giving all that up forhim.”
“I know,” Kate finally says, the curve of her shoulders dropping in defeat.
Those two words twist the dagger until it breaks my heart clean in half.
I reel away from the cracked door, clutching what pieces I have left in my chest.
The fantasy future with Kate that’s been playing out in my mind is suddenly only that—a fantasy. Lazy Sundays and photography walks in the park together. The exhausted ecstasy of velvet nights turning to dawn.
Sure, she claims she wants to spend her life with menow, but how long until that changes? Was she only saying that to stick it to her parents?
The agony is so acutely precise, I can almost pinpoint exactly where it’s located inside my hollow chest. Familiar desperation claws its way up like a habit. The need to convince Kate of my worth is so potent that I can almost taste how pitiful it is. My mind becomes a waterfall of persuasion, fitting words into sentences so concise that maybe Kate will listen to me. Love me, even.
I almost laugh.
Cam’s and Liza’s voices begin to echo from the second level, wafting down the stairs. I realize I have maybe fifteen seconds before I’ll be caught eavesdropping.
I move blindly down the hall, but by the time I make it to the safety of the darkened patio, my thoughts are racing.
I’m not doing this again. I refuse. I cannot—will not—be like my mom anymore, waiting and wishing and giving everything plus the coat off my back to be loved.
I force myself to pry my chin higher with every step. If anything, this trip has made me realize that I have a lot of love to offer someone.
But only if they’ll love me in return.
KATE
“I know,” I repeat, once I’ve calmed the nausea churning in my stomach. “You’re right. Iama fool.”
I pull away from the first hug I’ve had from my mother in over a decade.
“Because he’s worth all of it, Mom. Worth sacrificing all those”—my voice catches, tears brimming in my eyes—“summers.”
Because the truth is, Idowant those summers with my family. Yearn for them, even. But among the laughter, games, and sun, I picture little boys with dark hair and Brandon’s green eyes.
But even the edges of this vision are strained, like my mind knows this mirage is a far cry from reality. How could this beautiful daydream ever come to pass when the very foundation of our family is built from manipulated bricks? When the love here is so conditional that a stiff breeze could knock it all to dust?
Tears flow freely down my cheeks, but they’re not about Brandon at all.
They’re grief, pure and simple.
And I mourn.
It’s gut-wrenching, the acceptance of my future. It will not be filled with my children calling Vivian Rochester-Chen a special grandma nickname. No childlike wonder in my kids’ eyes as they unwrap a thoughtful birthday gift with sticky hands. No giggles because their grandfather tosses them in the air like they do on TV.
Because my parents are not those people.
For the first time, I recognize that I must accept this. Because parents are human. They make mistakes. And if there’s any truth to my mother’s words about wanting what’s best for me, then they must love me on some level.
But love doesn’t equal acceptance, and I’m no longer in the market of accepting currency by any other form.
Wordlessly, I pull my mom into a hug for what could be the last time. Because I’m not going to force myself, or my future husband and kids, into a relationship where we’re not accepted.
