Silence.
‘You want me to pretend it didn’t happen.To play nice.To make you feel like a good mother.’I shake my head.‘I’m done performing.’I meet her eyes.‘I’m done being the version of myself that makes you feel better.’
And for once, she doesn’t have a comeback.
June stands.
Not slowly.Not shakily.She rises as if she’s been preparing for this moment her whole life – every inch of her rigid with wounded pride.
Her eyes are glassy, though no tears fall.She won’t let them.She’s too stubborn for that.
‘I’ve done nothing to deserve this cruelty,’ she says.‘You’ve always been the same as your father.Guarded.Impossible.You push everyone away and then wonder why you’re alone.’
I don’t move.
‘What about unconditional love?’she snaps.‘What about everything I did for you?’
I let out a soft, bitter laugh.‘You don’t get to play that card now.Not when it’s convenient.’
She flinches.‘I was doing my best.’
‘No,’ I say, standing too now.‘You weren’t.’
Her jaw tightens.
‘I love you,’ I say, and that’s the truth.‘But I won’t lie for you anymore.I won’t pretend this didn’t happen.’
She grabs her leather bag with shaking hands.Reaches for her keys.Not crying.Furious.
‘Ungrateful children,’ she mutters under her breath.‘I won’t stay where I’m not welcome.’
I don’t stop her.
At the door, she turns.
‘You’re just like him,’ she spits.‘Cold and selfish.’
And then the door slams so hard the sound echoes through my apartment.
I don’t move.
I stand there, staring at the door as if it might open again.As if she might return and undo it all, and we’ll have to pretend none of this happened – again.
My pulse is still racing, sharp behind my ribs.But I’m not crying.I’m not screaming.
I’m just … breathing.
I glance around the room.There’s a ring of red wine on the coffee table.The bowls of pad thai, cold and half-eaten, sit like artefacts from a scene I didn’t audition for.The candle’s still flickering, stubborn and bright.
I walk to the table.Pick up the wine bottle.Swirl what’s left.Then pour it slowly, deliberately, down the sink.
FORTY-ONE
The sun is too bright for someone who emotionally combusted the night before.
I slide onto our usual milk crates at One Fine Cup with sunglasses on, denim shorts, white t-shirt, a messy bun and a moral hangover that pairs beautifully with oat milk.
Abbey’s halfway through her first latte, scrolling her phone with the composure of someone who didn’t yell at their mother until she stormed out.
