She sets a plate in front of me. Pot roast. Potatoes. Carrots. Comfort food designed to anchor you to the world.
I take a bite. It tastes of nothing.
Mom sits across from me, hands folded around her mug. She doesn’t push. Doesn’t fill the silence. She’s learned better than that.
Finally, I say it. The thing I’ve been circling for days.
“I think she’s not coming back.”
The words feel wrong in my mouth, like they belong to someone else’s story.
Mom’s lips press together. Her eyes shine, but she doesn’t look away. “Is that what you think… or what you’re telling yourself so you can survive it?”
I huff out a weak breath. “Both.”
She nods slowly. “Your brothers told me about the website.”
Of course they did.
“And the pictures,” I add.
Her jaw tightens. “I told them to stop digging.”
“They won’t,” I say again.
She reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers. Her palm is warm.
“You’ve lost before,” she says quietly. “I know what this is bringing up.”
My throat tightens.
Belinda’s name sits between us unspoken, heavy as a stone.
“I don’t know how to do this again,” I admit. “I don’t know how to let someone go when I don’t even know if they wanted to leave.”
Mom squeezes my hand. “Sometimes loving someone means accepting what you can’t change.”
“And if it’s not her choice?” I ask. “What if she’s stuck? What if she needs help and I’m just… giving up?”
Mom’s eyes soften painfully. “Dallas. You cannot save someone who hasn’t asked to be saved.”
“She did,” I whisper. “She asked me to come get her. She said…” I stop. Swallow hard. “She said she felt trapped.”
Mom’s grip tightens. “Then listen to me very carefully. If Faith asks for help again, clearly, directly, you go. Without hesitation. Without guilt.”
“And until then?”
Her gaze holds mine. “Until then, you live. You breathe. You don’t destroy yourself waiting.”
Tears burn behind my eyes. “I’m so tired of losing people.”
Mom stands, walks around the table, and pulls me into her arms without asking. I go stiff for half a second—grown men don’t cry in kitchens—but then I break anyway.
She holds me as she did when I was a kid. I’m still hers to protect.
“I know,” she murmurs into my hair. “I know.”
When she finally lets me go, my chest aches in a different way. Cleaner. Sad, but not as sharp.
