“I know.”
Her finger slides to Emma’s grin. “And who is this?”
“Leo’s daughter.”
My mother smiles—just a ghost of a thing, brief and gone before I can catch it. “She seems…lively.”
A surprised laugh punches out of me. “You have no idea. They’re…they’re the best thing that’s happened to me.”
She stays there for a moment, still looking at the picture, her back to me. “So why were you crying?”
The question is so blunt that I’m momentarily stunned. I wave a hand dismissively. “My best friend just moved out. It’s been a long morning, but I’ll be fine.”
She finally turns from the fridge, her gaze travelling over the books stacked on the floor, Cori’s abandoned succulent on the windowsill, Leo’s sweater on the back of my chair. Her arms are still crossed, but her voice, when it comes, is almost quiet. “You’re building a life here.”
It isn’t a question. It’s an observation, stripped bare. She says it the way someone might note that the sky is grey.
“I am,” I whisper.
I can’t believe she’s here. After the Carlyle, I would’ve bet my bottom dollar I’d never see her again unless it involved a lawyer and a very long table. And yet, here she is, standing inmy kitchen, looking at my life through a lens I never thought she possessed.
She turns back to me, the light from the window catching the diamonds on her hand—stones that cost more than this entire building. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here, Annemarie.”
“Kind of,” I admit. The words feel sticky in my throat. “I thought you’d…disowned me. Right along with Dad.”
She sighs, a sound of genuine weariness that softens the perfect line of her shoulders. “I had no idea things would escalate the way they did. I tried to talk to him afterwards, truly, but he was already on the phone with lawyers. To get your name off the family accounts, the estate documents…everything.” She pauses, her gaze flitting to the floor, then back to me. She actually looks…embarrassed. “I am sorry. For how that happened.”
I stare at her. I don’t think I’ve heard my mother say the wordsI’m sorryin my entire life. Not when I fell off my bike, not when I didn’t get the lead in the school play, not when my world fell apart. It’s a shift in the bedrock of us.
“Then why?” The question bursts out, raw. “Why do you stay with him? He disowned your only child, called her a whore and you’re still standing beside him.”
“Because he’s my husband, Annemarie.” She says it with a finality. Then, softer: “Maybe I was raised in a different time, but women of my generation…we don’t leave simply because we don’t like something.”
“It’s not aboutdislikingsomething, Mom,” I scoff, the old frustration bubbling up. “It’s about him being shitty to your only daughter. Can you just admit that, for once? That his behavior is shitty?”
For a long moment, she just looks at me. Then, she squares her shoulders. “I’m trying to make it right in the ways I can. I spoke to my lawyer.” She takes a step closer, her voice dropping,as if my father might be listening through the water-stained ceiling. “Your father can withdraw his portion of the trust. But he cannot touch your grandfather’s. Clive’s will, the trust he left for you…it’s ironclad, Annemarie. He has no power over it.”
A strange numbness starts in my fingertips. “He’ll try.”
“He can’t.” Her voice is firm, unshakable. “You were left twelve million dollars by your grandfather. You’ll receive it right before the New Year.”
Twelve million dollars.
The room feels like it’s tilting.Twelve million dollars.The number is so large it feels abstract. I could buy a place. Arealplace with a radiator that doesn’t scream at 3 AM. I could spoil Emma with every book in Manhattan and make sure Cori’s baby never wants for anything. I could even buy a car, though the thought of parallel parking in a snowstorm makes me want to die. I could…I could have a wedding. A real one, if Leo ever asked. The thought is so terrifying and sweet I have to shove it aside.
She reaches into her leather clutch and pulls out a thick cream envelope. “And I want you to have this.”
I open it and find a check for fifty thousand dollars. The zeros swim before my eyes. I haven’t seen a comma in my bank account in…I can’t remember.
My hand is steady as I hold it back out to her. “Keep it.”
“Annie—”
“I don’t want your money. And I don’t want you to think you can buy…this.” I gesture between us, at the fragile, new thing stretching in the space.
She doesn’t take the envelope. Instead, she closes her cool, smooth hands around mine, forcing my fingers to curl around the paper. “I want you to have it because you are my daughter. And believe it or not, I want to see you succeed.” Her eyes flick around the apartment again, and for the first time, there’s a hintof her old dry humor. “It might help you move out of this…charmingly rustic shoebox. Please. Take it. Continue building this…this beautiful life.” Her voice wavers, just for a second. “You deserve to have beautiful things.”
The lump in my throat is back, massive and aching. I will not cry. I have a daily quota, and I blew through it minutes ago watching a station wagon drive away. Instead, I do something I haven’t done since I was a child. I step forward and wrap my arms around her.
