Page 26
“Isn’t it?”
Her silence is damning.
“I’m not Carlos or Franky or Isabel or Sofia. I’m me. And I’m done apologizing for it.”
She stands, her cup barely touched. “I thought this would go differently.”
“Yeah. So did I.”
For a moment, something flickers across her face—regret, maybe. Or guilt. But it’s gone before I can decide if it was real.
She smooths her blazer, always so pristine, always so controlled. “Tell your father I tried.”
A scoff bursts from my lips, short and sharp, like a car backfiring in a too-quiet street. “No, Mom. You didn’t try. You came to criticize me with better lighting and tea service.”
Her gaze sharpens. “That’s not fair.”
“You want fair?” I laugh, and it’s hollow. Ugly. “Fair would’ve been you showing up when I got cheated on, not telling me I must’ve driven Kyle to stray. Fair would’ve been you calling after I left Newton, or checking if I landed on my feet in Horseshoe Bay instead of assuming I’d be back when the dust settled.”
Her spine stiffens, mouth drawn into that thin line she thinks hides her judgment. It doesn’t. Never has. “I didn’t come here to fight, Mya.”
“Bullshit. You came here to clean up the mess you made—except the only thing out of place is me, isn’t it?” My words crack like a whip, slicing the tension wide open. “Pregnant with twins. Living with a man who isn’t the father. Designing maternity athleisure wear instead of pursuing something more ‘respectable’—I bet it’s killing you that you can’t scrub that off me like scuffed heels before mass.”
“I raised you better than this,” she says quietly, and that’s somehow worse than her yelling. The disappointment seeps through every syllable.
I clench my jaw. My nails bite crescents into my palms, but I hold her stare. “No, you raised me to survive your expectations. I did the rest on my own.”
She exhales, but there’s no softness in it. Just exhaustion laced with superiority. “You’ve always been the difficult one,” she repeats. “You never wanted what was good for you.”
“No. I never wanted your version of good.” My heart thunders like it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest. “You line us up like chess pieces and I’m the pawn who ran off the board.”
Her lips part, ready to fire back, but I keep going.
“Every time I didn’t fit, you found new ways to cut me down and call it concern. You played favorites with the ones who made you look good, and you kept me hidden behind a curtain of ‘what could’ve been.’ I was the girl who dyed her hair red, wore combat boots to Christmas, and dumped a cheating fiancé—how dare I not reflect your perfect Catholic wife prototype?”
Emotion clogs my throat, tight and unrelenting. “And now you’re here, not because you love me, but because Dad left and your house doesn’t feel right without someone to control.”
For the first time, she falters. Her shoulders twitch like she’s been struck.
“I’m sorry your marriage is crumbling,” I add, voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m not your fix. Not now. Not ever.”
She stares at me like she doesn’t recognize the woman in front of her.
And maybe that’s the point.
“I should go,” she says stiffly, standing.
I nod. “Yeah. You should.”
She leaves the cup on the counter, untouched.
When the door clicks shut, the silence roars in my ears, but for the first time, it’s not empty.
It’s deafening.
It swells, wraps around me like a tidal wave with nowhere to go, pressing against every inch of skin until I can’t breathe. My chest contracts, ribs locking down like they’re trying to cage a wildfire, and for a second—just one second—I think I’m fine. That I’ll just…exhale and this ache in my throat will vanish.
But I don’t exhale.
