The thought causes emotion to coat my throat, and I quietly clear it away.
Louisa barges into the kitchen. “Sorry, I need to go—work emergency,” she rushes out whilst giving Mom a hug.
She eyes me over her shoulder before giving me one, squeezing a little bit harder than she did Mom, and I do it right back as our strangled laughs fill the air.
“I know a personal shopper I can put you in touch with,” she whispers in my ear, then diverts out of my insult earshot. Her fancy heels clacking and tailormade suit swoosh around at the speed she stomps out the house.
Louisa has style, but it’s not for me. Hoodies and leggings for the win.
“She never stops, your sister.”
I slide my gaze over Mom, standing with her hands on her hips, looking like the proudest parent in the world; it coaxes a lopsided smile of my own.
“She’s going to have a heart attack if she doesn’t sit on her ass for more than five minutes. Those pancakes haven’t even had time to make their way to her digestive system,” I mumble, putting the rest of the dishes back into their respective homes.
“As will you, you’re always working so late at night. You should be enjoying what’s left of your twenties! It all goes downhill when you hit thirty, honey.”
I release an exasperated breath and pinch my nose. “Mom, please. A lot has changed since your generation. Thirties are actually said to be just the beginning.”
I’m only twenty-eight, but my mom has this wild belief in a stereotype that I should be married and have at least two kids by this age.
And to be honest, it was something I thought would be in the pipeline for me, especially nearing the end of university.
It’s funny how one moment in your life can tear apart everything you ever knew, everything you’d hoped for. One unaware decision can set off a chain of events you never thought possible.
That realisation hovers over you forever.
Mom walks up to me, noticing me getting lost in my head, and pulls me in for a hug.
It’s one of those motherly ones that wraps around your vulnerability, soothing the remnants of a long-surviving ache.
“I just want you to live life the best you can.”
I pull back from her, holding her at arm’s length. Those icy blue eyes, that mirror all three of us Kent women, are etched with concern.
It’s lessened over the years, but the weight still lingers deep within them—it scared her too.
“I do, Mom. In my own way.” I force a smile at her.
I might not live my life as most people do, partying, dating, even travelling the world. Just knowing I help others get something we never had the opportunity to have, is good enough for me.
Peace is something unappreciated in life.
She gives me one last hug before we say our goodbyes, and I head out into the chill mid-morning air, rushing to get into the car and crank the heating up.
And like clockwork, when I’ve allowed my mind to dwell too deep in everything I box up, I pull my phone out.
I hover over one of the many apps Regina has made for work. But this one I use to torture myself with the past.
The what ifs.
The wonder and longing.
My heart aches with hope every time I open the livestream. I could just as easily take the drive over; it’s only minutes from here.
But I can’t; I’m not brave enough.
I face men who’ve done horrific crimes, done incomprehensible things to women like me.
