Because I’m not ready. It isn’t time.
Keanu was there for me when I needed him.
And this is the only way I can repay him, to give him something in return.
I will always love him, because he is myeverything.
But sometimes loving someone means we must let them go.
* * *
“How was your day?”Mom asks when I step into the kitchen an hour later.
“Long, but good.” I dump my bag on the floor by the island unit and lean into her, accepting the fleeting kiss on my cheek. “How was yours?”
“About the same,” she replies with a smile, turning her back to me to place the tray of chicken into the stainless-steel double oven.
“I read about the case today. It doesn’t sound like it’ll wrap up anytime soon.” I situate myself beside her at the counter and pick up the large, sharp knife. I get started on the vegetables, chopping them uniformly as Mom prepares the sauce.
“It’s a complex case and one I’ll be involved in for at least another month, if not more.” She reaches overhead, pulling a bag of flour out of one of the cream-colored cupboards.
Mom is a well-respected superior court justice, with years of experience, presiding over serious criminal cases that have won her a certain amount of notoriety. She has dedicated her life to the pursuit of justice, and I couldn’t be any luckier that she chose to adopt me.
I couldn’t ask for anyone kinder and more patient than Sandrine Douglas.
She has devoted herself to her work, the charity she set up three years ago, and to me.
I know if my birth parents are looking down on me that they are grateful she came into my life.
I certainly know I am.
“Mom,” I whisper, keeping my gaze focused on the onions and peppers as I cut them up. “I love you.”
“Sweetheart.” She reaches out, tentatively touching my arm. “Is everything okay? Did something happen?”
I lift my head, smiling at her through eyes brimming with emotion. “Nothing happened. I just want you to know how grateful I am for all you’ve done for me and how much I love you for taking me in when most everyone else would have let the system swallow me up.”
Those early days were not pleasant for anyone involved, least of all my new mom, but she never wavered in her support and her patience, and she pulled me through those first few months when most days I woke up wanting to end it all so the pain would cease.
“Can I hug you?” she asks, similar emotion swimming in the depths of her gray-blue eyes.
I lean into her, wrapping my arms around her, vowing to do this spontaneously more often. It’s not right that my mother can’t hug me freely. Guilt churns in my gut, but I remind myself of how far I have come and that one day I will be able to openly accept her physical declarations of love.
I shied away from human touch when I first escaped, and it’s taken years for me to accept what most take for granted. The only touch I ever felt truly comfortable with was Keanu’s, but even that had limitations.
“I’m so proud of you, Selena,” Mom whispers as she holds me close. “So proud of the strong, brave, courageous young woman you have become.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I slip out of her embrace, returning to my prep. “I’m proud of me too.” My therapist says I need to acknowledge my progress and praise myself with every new baby step. It goes a long way toward encouraging positive self-belief and self-love, apparently.
“I hope it’s okay,” Mom says, stirring the sauce in the pan. “But I asked Alex Kennedy to join us for dinner. We have some things to discuss in relation to the charity, and she wanted to see you as she’s missed you the last few times she’s dropped by.”
“That’s fine. I like Alex.” I have a lot to thank Keanu’s mom for, and although it’s sometimes painful seeing her—because it invariably reminds me of her son—I genuinely enjoy her company. She’s become a good friend to Mom.
After dinner is prepped and in the oven, I take a quick shower and change into my favorite knee-length pink skater-style dress and a white cardigan, slipping my feet into my ballet flats. I don’t bother with makeup, and I let my long blonde hair hang loose down my back, letting it dry naturally.
Mom has just uncorked a bottle of red wine when the doorbell chimes. She places it down on the wooden countertop, and we flip our gazes to the row of screens on the far wall of the kitchen, smiling as we watch Alex wiggling her fingers into the camera. “I’ll let her in,” I supply, my feet already moving toward the kitchen door.
Even though I know it’s only Alex standing on the porch of our brownstone, I still glance through the peephole before unchaining the deadbolt on the door.
