She’d searched for her on social media this week and found nothing. Her mother apparently kept a low profile.Like mother, like daughter, she mentally scoffed. The woman had probably given up on hearing from Lauren since she’d sent the letter months ago.
She watched as a young woman exited the building with a toddler. Maybe Lauren shouldn’t have come here. Maybe she should’ve reached out by letter instead. But she was so unsteady, her emotions raw. The element of surprise would give her an advantage, and she needed that. Would her mother even know her?
She drew a deep breath and blew it out. Time to face this head-on. She turned off the engine and exited the car. Huddled against the cold, she rushed toward the building. A plane roared past overhead. Down the street a garbage truck beeped, then emptied a can into its depths. The smell of freshly fallen snow filled her lungs.
When she reached the building she opened the door, stepped into the well-lit entry, and wiped her feet. She’d worn her Prada suede ankle boots—she needed all the bolstering she could get—her matching leather moto jacket, and a pair of gold hoop earrings. She wasn’t going into this feeling like that foster kid in someone else’s castaways.
She snorted at the thought because in actuality she’d bought her entire outfit secondhand.
And then there it was. A black door with a big goldBon the face. She stopped, but her heart thudded ahead like a galloping horse. She wet her lips. Swallowed hard. Then knocked.
As she lowered her hand, she scrambled to remember what she’d planned to say. But everything seemed to have vanished from her mind.
A noise sounded from behind door. Someone was home. And then a lock clicked and the door swept open to reveal a woman with wavy light brown hair worn just past her shoulders. “Can I help you?”
Darcy Wentworth. Her mother. Lauren saw herself in that petite face, in those green eyes fixed on her.
Her mother must’ve seen it too. Her lips parted. Her eyes widened. She covered her mouth. “Lauren?” she asked softly. “Is that you?” Tears erupted and streamed down her face.
Words caught in Lauren’s throat, jumbling together like a twenty-car pileup.
“It is you. Oh, honey! Come in.” She opened the door wider. “Will you come in? Please?”
Lauren stepped tentatively forward, her pulse racing, her lungs working to keep up. She passed her mother and the door clicked shut behind her. She glanced around at the homey living room, complete with area rugs and plants and candles.
I’m standing in my mother’s apartment.
A yellow tabby cat slinked forward and wound around Lauren’s legs.
“Sorry.” Darcy snatched the cat away. “He—he’s a very curious little guy. Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
Her mother stared while Lauren perched on the closest seat, an armchair. Then she covered her mouth again with trembling fingers. “I’m sorry, I just can’t believe you’re here. I’d given up all hope.”
It helped a bit that her mother was more shaken than she was. It seemed only fair. “I got your letter.”
As if losing a war with gravity, Darcy sank onto the sofa across from Lauren. It was so strange seeing her familiar face again. She looked older. Her eyelids were hooded, and thought lines creased her forehead. She got by with little or no makeup.
“I hope it didn’t... make things worse for you. I prayed so hard that I was doing the right thing. I didn’t want to disrupt your life. And then when I didn’t hear back, I feared I’d made yet another mistake.”
Lauren wet her dry lips. “I don’t think it was.”
“Oh, I’m so glad.” Darcy’s eyes seemed to drink her in as her face softened. “You’re so beautiful. Far prettier than I ever was. Lauren, are you happy? Has life been good to you?”
Lauren thought of her disjointed, unsettled childhood, and anger burst to the surface. A snort erupted. “No, it really hasn’t.”
The light extinguished in Darcy’s eyes just before she closed them. “Oh no. No. I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“You apologized in your letter. It doesn’t make everything right.”
Her mother swallowed hard. “No, it doesn’t. How can I help you, honey? What can I do for you?”
There was a question. What could her mother do for her? Did she want to rail at her for leaving? Curse her for the string of events that came afterward? She searched the face of the woman across from her. The woman who was wringing her hands and staring bravely, eyes full of regret.
The woman who’d been ensnared by an addiction she’d acquired from an accident. She’d been only twenty when she’d had Lauren. And a year younger than Lauren was now when she’d left. She’d missed out on most of her daughter’s childhood. Was now in her midforties and had little to show for her life but regrets.
The sympathy the letter had conjured up bloomed once again. Darcy Wentworth had already paid a high price for her mistakes.
