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She picks up on the third ring. “Hey, Sis, what’s up?”
“Izzy . . .” My voice catches, and I swallow hard. “Guess who just called me?”
“Gabe to declare his love for you?” she jokes.
I give a humorless laugh. “No, Izzy, this isn’t about Gabe. I’m serious.”
“Okay, you’re scaring me a bit.” Her tone shifts and there’s an edge of concern in it. “What happened?”
“Mom. Mom called me,” I mumble bitterly, old wounds reopening inside me.
Silence on the other end. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing back the angry tears burning behind my lids—the resentment and sadness swelling up. Still, Izzy says nothing.
“She called out of the blue,” I repeat when she doesn’t respond, hoping to prompt her. “Said she wants to ‘reconnect’ or something like that. No pressure, but soon.”
I hear Isadora exhale slowly. “Wow. That’s . . . I don’t even know what to say.”
“Neither do I,” I admit. Inside I’m a roiling sea of doubt and confusion, waves of emotion threatening to pull me under. Has our mother tried to contact her as well? What could she possibly want from us now after all these years?
Of course, I have to ask her. At least someone has to give me a few answers. Izzy has always been up front with me. From everyone, she’s been the one person that is the closest to me. “So, has she contacted you too?”
Another heavy silence follows before Izzy says firmly, “Don’t respond, Amy. Don’t reach out. She doesn’t get to just waltz back into our lives after all this time.”
I nibble my lip, conflicted. Izzy is right, but . . . “But don’t you want answers? To know why she left, where she’s been all these years?” I ask pleadingly.
“She made her choice to abandon Dad and us. Nothing else matters,” Izzy states bluntly. “It’s not worth digging up the past or old wounds. Not when we’re finally healing.”
But are we really healing? I wonder silently. Were we ever truly better, or have we just grown accustomed to the absence, the void she left behind? Isadora’s words sound rehearsed, as if she’s trying to convince herself as much as me.
“I know you, Ameline. You want answers, closure. But she won’t give that to you,” Isadora adds, her tone taking on a warning edge. “And Dad . . . he definitely won’t be happy if he finds out about this call.”
Dad is never happy. He’s going from one wife to the other. Izzy . . . Well, I really don’t know much about her life in Oregon. We don’t speak much about the past or her present. She always tries to keep all the attention on me. That’s quite odd and something we need to discuss later. Maybe she thinks I’m too young to understand her troubles.
There has to be a way to make her understand that we can be equals. She can trust me. I need a sister and a friend, too. It’s not like I don’t have friends, but I would give everything to be closer to her. It’s not like I’m looking for a mother figure in her but . . . I swipe at a rogue tear, taking a shaky, steadying breath.
These are just thoughts and doubts brought by the sudden appearance of my mother. I shouldn’t allow her to break her way into my heart and mind and let her wreak havoc in my world.
“Have you told Dad?” Izzy asks gently.
I shake my head before letting out a breath. “No. I don’t know how he’ll react. He’s never once mentioned or spoken about her after she left.”
“Good. Keep it that way.” Her tone leaves no room for argument. “The less he knows, the better.”
I exhale, a futile attempt to release the tension that’s coiled inside me since the call. But Izzy’s words don’t bring the comfort I need. The thought of confronting my mother, of finally facing the past, refuses to leave my mind. I squeeze my eyes shut as a headache begins to form, a dull throb at the temples.
Realizing I can’t continue the conversation, I force out, “Thanks, Izzy. I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Of course, I’m always here for you,” she responds, her voice filled with concern.
As I end the call, I’m left alone with my spinning thoughts and the building pressure of an oncoming headache. The idea of seeing my mother again after all these years, along with worrying about my dad’s reaction and my own messy feelings—it’s too much. It feels overwhelming.
I sit very still, the silence of the room making my thoughts seem even louder. Part of me knows I should take this chance to confront my past. But it also scares me.
I try to steady my uneven breathing, pressing my hands together to stop them from shaking. Questions keep popping up in my head like, “Why now?” and “Why even reach out at all?” One side of me wants to see her. Let her explain. But the other side is surprisingly angry, even when after all these years I said it didn’t matter, that I never missed having a mother or felt anything for her after her abandonment.
With a long exhale, I lower my head into my hands, fingertips pressed to my temples where the headache pounds. I just need time—to think this over, and figure out if I’m ready to reopen this old wound. The choice that lands in my lap feels crushingly heavy. Almost too much to handle alone right now.
Chapter Twenty-Five
