Page 31 of Shattered

Delia sat in the passenger seat staring out the window, her whole body angled away like she was trying to occupy as little shared space as possible. We’d barely spoken all week—not since I’d apparently crossed some invisible line by cleaning her apartment and she’d crossed an actual legal line by assaulting a couple having a private argument.

I’d been trying to help. She’d interpreted it as control. Annoyingly, both of us were right in our own ways. We’d reached an impasse that made every interaction feel like navigating a minefield.

The call from the police station had stopped my heart.

I’d been in her apartment when my phone rang with an unknown number. I never answered unknown numbers during meetings. Something made me answer anyway.

“Is this Axel Irving? We have a Delia Santoro here who says you can verify?—”

I’d run out of her apartment and called my lawyer on the way to my car.

The entire drive to the station, my mind had been running through worst-case scenarios. What had happened. If she was hurt. If someone had hurt her.

When I’d seen her in that interrogation room—defiant, furious, trying to project an aura of not caring—the relief had been so intense I’d nearly said something monumentally stupid.

Instead I’d gotten her out. Handled the paperwork. Driven her home in silence because I hadn’t trusted myself to speak.

I’d thought not talking about it would help. That giving her space would show respect for her boundaries.

Apparently I’d been wrong about that too.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Delia said suddenly, still not looking at me.

“Do what?”

“Come to dinner. You haven’t attended in years,”

“Your family invited me.”

“Not like it mattered to you before. And my mother invited you—she probably doesn’t even remember doing it. Daniel just went along with it because he feels guilty.”

“I don’t mind.”

“You should.” She finally turned to look at me. “Fair warning—Since your absence, you probably don’t know Mom’s been having more bad days than good lately. She might not remember who you are. Or she might remember you perfectly and say something completely inappropriate. It’s a coin toss.”

“I’ve known your mother for years. I also understand how Alzheimer’s works.”

“Understanding it and living with it are different things.” Her voice went quieter. “It’s hard to watch. Even for me, and I’m her daughter. You don’t have to subject yourself to it out of some sense of obligation.”

“It’s not an obligation.”

“Then what is it?”

I kept my eyes on the road. “It’s dinner. With people I care about.”

She was quiet for a moment, then turned back to the window. But something in her posture had shifted slightly. Less like she was trying to escape and more like she was just tired.

The Santoro house looked the same as it always had—a modest two-story in a neighborhood that had seen better days but still held onto its dignity. The lawn was neatly maintained, the porch swept clean, a wreath on the door that Elena had probably put up months ago and forgotten about.

Home. It still felt like home, even after five years of deliberate distance.

Elena opened the door before we could knock, her face lighting up with genuine joy. “There you are! I was starting to worry.”

She pulled Delia into a hug first, holding on just a beat longer than casual, like she was reassuring herself that her daughter was real and present. Then she turned to me.

“Axel. My second son.” She wrapped her arms around me and I bent down to accommodate her shrinking frame. She felt more fragile than last time—lighter, like she was slowly disappearing around the edges.

“It’s good to see you, Elena.”