Despite everything, I almost smiled. “That was two years ago, Mama.”
“Hm.” She didn’t sound convinced. “Still. A motherwants to see her son when he’s injured. Make sure he’s really okay.”
“I’m really okay. I promise.”
“You promise, but you won’t let me visit. That makes me worry more, not less.”
I rubbed my face. “It’s just not a good time.”
“When is it a good time? You’re injured. You’re home all day. This is exactly when I should visit.”
“Mama,basta.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll let it go. But promise me you’ll call if you need me.”
“I promise, Mama.”
After she shared family news, she hung up. Ithunkedmy head against the door, my heart racing.
That was too close. Way too close.
When I hobbled back into the bedroom, Étienne was awake, sitting up against the headboard, his hair messed up on one side.
“Was that your mother?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Did she—did she hear me?”
“Maybe. I told her it was the TV.” I sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed my face. “She wants to visit.”
“Oh.” Étienne’s expression shifted.
I let out a frustrated breath. “She won’t let it go. Keeps asking why I won’t let her visit, saying she needs to see me with her own eyes to make sure I’m okay.”
“That’s… kind of sweet, actually.”
I looked at him. “Sweet? It’s overbearing. Intrusive. I’m thirty-two years old and she still treats me like I can’t take care of myself.”
Étienne was quiet for a moment, his gaze dropping to his hands. “She just wants to make sure you’re okay.”
“But—”
“Marco.” He looked up at me, and his expression made me stop. “I wish I had someone like that. Someone who called because they were worried, who wanted to visit to make sure I was healing properly.” His voice was quiet. “Someone who cared how I was doing instead of just finding faults in everything I did.”
The words landed like a punch to the gut.
Étienne’s father. The calls after every game, cataloging every mistake. The constant criticism that wore Étienne down.
I thought about my mother’s voice on the phone—worried, insistent, wanting to cook for me and take care of me. Overbearing, yes. But coming from a place of love.
Not from judgment. Not from disappointment.
“You’re right,” I said quietly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean?—”
“I know.” He gave me a small smile. “She drives you crazy. But she cares, Marco. Really cares. That’s… that’s not something everyone has.”
I reached for his hand. “Your father’s an asshole.”
