What hadn’t settled was the rest. He couldn’t stay in his own place any longer, pacing and replaying what he’d lost with Blair, questioning every decision until the silence started to feel dangerous.
He kept replaying his last moments with her, the look in her eyes when he’d pushed her away. He’d done it to protect her, he told himself. But standing in the suffocating quiet of his own place, a different truth surfaced. He was pushing her away because that’s what he was taught to do. His mother had been terrified that loving him, a reminder of what she’d lost, would destroy her. Deep down, he was terrified that loving Blair would destroy her. The cycle was right there. Silence and distance passed down like a legacy. He couldn't break it with Blair until he understood its origin.
He knew what real love was. Blair had shown him. It was a force, a choice, a terrifying and beautiful surrender. It wasn't a transaction based on pain and fear. That was his mother's love, not his. What he needed to understand was why. Why was he given the lesson in conditional love instead of the unconditional kind he saw in his father? Why was he taught to build walls when all he ever wanted was a home? The only way to understand that was to finally, brutally, dissect the two loves that made him.
He needed answers, or at least the truth spoken out loud.
The door opened a crack. His mother peered out, her expression already guarded, a familiar mask of placid composure. “Kelly,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “What are you doing out there?”
“I just got back,” he said, his own voice low. “I need to talk to you.”
Her fingers laced together, a nervous knot at her waist. “About what?”
“I know these kinds of conversations make you anxious, but please try to meet me halfway here,” he said quietly, trying to keep his own frustration in check. “This matters.”
She sighed, a small, weary sound that seemed to deflate her shoulders, and stepped aside. “Come in.”
Inside, the air was still and sterile, smelling of lemon polish and the faint, cloying scent of potpourri. The only sound was the low, rhythmic hum of an old refrigerator and the relentless tick-tock of a grandfather clock in the hall, measuring time without allowing it to pass. Everything was immaculate. The same furniture, positioned with military precision. The same careful order. Nothing disturbed. Nothing acknowledged. A single photo of his father stood on the mantelpiece, polished and placed like an exhibit.
She sat on the sofa, perched on the edge as if ready to flee. He lowered himself into the armchair across from her, the motion stiff and deliberate. A tight pull in his side reminded him he had been cut. She noticed immediately.
“You’re hurt.”
“It’s most healed.”
“You were wounded, and you didn’t call me.” Her tone was laced with accusation, and he realized it had nothing to do with her concern. Did she think it was the right response?
“I didn’t think it was a big deal.” He kept his voice flat, refusing to give her the emotion she wanted to dissect or allow this discussion to deviate from what he needed.
Her mouth tightened, a familiar line of disapproval. “It is.”
He didn’t rise to it because he didn’t believe her. “I’m not here to argue about that.”
She waited, her hands folded in her lap, her posture rigid.
“When did you conceive me?” he asked.
The question hung in the sterile air. She blinked, a flicker of genuine surprise breaking through her composure. “Why would you ask that?”
“When.”
“Oh, honey,” she said, waving a dismissive hand, the gesture a practiced evasion. “That isn’t important.”
“It is to me.” The edge in his voice surprised her. “I need to understand something.”
She exhaled, looking suddenly tired. “I was seventeen.”
“In high school.”
“Yes.” She looked away.
“Did he know about me when you married him?” He held his breath, hanging on every look, every breath she took.
“Yes.” She frowned, the lines on her forehead deepening.
Shock coursed through him. This truth was deeper and more meaningful than hearing about Derrick. He had to take a hard, painful breath, let this information process through him like a rolling tide, drawing on him like the moon, the sheer realization that his father gave him unconditional love even before he was born. “He knew I wasn’t his. He married you while you were pregnant with another man’s kid?”
“Yes. Your father loved me…us.” Her face contorted with a grief so swift and sharp it stole his breath, but she smoothed it out almost as fast. It was the only time she’d ever given him a part of herself, and it was everything. It was the answer. God, he wanted her to cry, now, in front of him, looking him in the eye, but she shut down.
