I looked down at our hands, my cheeks growing wet as I smiled softly.
“I remember when Camila and I were little. I was five… maybe six. When I couldn’t sleep I’d leave our room and go find Mama… And she let me climb in beside her and Papa. Never said anything or asked what was wrong, just pulled the covers over me and held me till I fell asleep between them.”
I shook my head. “Then one day, the door was locked. Thought it must’ve been Papa that put a stop to it, but he was always away on business. And that door never opened again. I held onto that for years. Like if she held me once she could do it again.”
Tristian rubbed the back of my hand. “And she never did,” I continued. “After that it was just distance. I grieved her more every day even though she was still living.” I let out a tired shrug, more tears springing to my eyes. “She’s dying though,” I said softly. “So I guess… I get to grieve her for real this time.”
A few more moments passed and Tristian let go of my hand as he opened the car door. I wiped my face, confused, pressing the back of my hand against my eyes, trying to pull myself together. A second later my door opened.
He stood there and held out his hand.
I took it and he pulled me out and straight into him, one arm around my back, one hand cradling my head, pressing me into his chest without a single word. I gripped the front of his jacket and let myself stay there. Let myself breathe him in, feel him against me.
He held me through all of it. Hand moving slow through my hair. Not telling me it was okay. Not rushing me through the moment, because in some way, I knew he needed this too.
The car ride over to my childhood home was silent. Tristian sat beside me. He’d grabbed my hand in his, gently squeezed my fingers.
I still couldn’t really process what was going on. Still couldn’t get over the fact that I finally stood up to my father or what Mr. Locke had said about my mother.She was dying…
“If you’re not ready yet, Ingrid, it’s okay,” Tristian said softly. “It’s been a long day. You don’t have to do this now.”
Shaking my head, I breathed out deeply, trying to force my tears back, looking up at the picture-perfect home, the facade of the model family. His thumb swept over my knuckles gently, “I endured… so much pain to keep the peace. I kept secrets to keep our family together… I—I did my part.”
“You did do your part, I know that, baby… But sometimes, we can only do so much. We can only take so much.”
“She could’ve stopped him,” I said, my voice breaking. “She could’ve told me if she was sick. She knew. And she let it all happen anyway.”
Tristian’s thumb gently traced the back of my hand like it was the only way to keep me sane. “You needed her to be the safe parent, the one you could rely on,” he said quietly. “But she wasn’t. And that’s not your fault.”
I shook my head. “I needed her to love me,” I whispered. “Love isn’t supposed to feel like abandonment.”
He stayed silent, the words hitting hard as I was reminded of our own experience where I almost felt abandoned by him. Where my attachment issues got the better of me. But I squeezed his hand back silently to tell him I was still here, that I forgave him because he was still here.
“I won’t let my mother keep pretending that everything… that everything is okay. I need to do this, for me.”
He nodded once. “I can go in with you…” he muttered.
But I shook my head. “No… you just being here is enough. I’ll be back,” I said softly, and he nodded, watching as I stepped out of the car and walked up the familiar driveway of my old home.
The front door groaned as I pushed it open, a sound that used to send a spike of terror through my gut. But the house was silent now—a pristine, curated mausoleum dedicated to the lie of a happy family. Every polished surface felt like a mockery, every framed photo proof of the secrets buried beneath the floorboards. I walked through the house, feeling like an intruder almost. My footsteps barely made a sound on the hardwood floor. But on the inside, I was screaming and crying.
I found her in the kitchen, seated at the island. Tea in hand, hair perfectly done, back straight, poised like always. She looked up when she heard me. Didn’t say anything, and for a moment, I didn’t either.
“…I went to see him,” I said finally.
She didn’t ask who, but she didn’t have to. Her shoulders tensed. “How is he?” she asked, looking back down at the mug.
“How is he? He’s… he’s in prison for domestic abuse.” My voice cracked. But I didn’t flinch.
She blinked slowly before she took a gentle sip of her tea.
“And you?” she asked, her voice soft. “Are you okay?”
I stared at her. My jaw tightened. It was the first time she’d asked me that inyears. And it felt more like a formality than a question.
“No,” I forced out, more tears threatening to spill from my tired eyes. “No, I’m not okay. My father is in prison for abusing me.”
The words hung there. I half expected her to do… well, I didn’t know what she would do. I didn’t, however, expect her to continue drinking her tea without batting a single eyelash.
