Page 130 of Taken Away

She rubbed her eyes and pushed away from the desk. She’d been staring at numbers for nearly two hours; the spreadsheets were beginning to blur.

A chipped ceramic coffee mug sat near the corner of the desk.

CAFFEINE UNTIL WINE O'CLOCK

The sight of it made her smile despite herself.

“Mabel,” she muttered.

The woman had managed to be intimidating and ridiculous at the same time.

Her gaze drifted toward the bookshelf behind the desk.

For a moment, she considered returning to work.

Instead, she stood.

The shelves were filled with binders, awards, photographs—decades of accumulated history.

Aubrey ran a finger across a gilded frame.

Mabel stood beside Harold in the photograph.

Both younger. Both sunburned. Both smiling.

Happy.

Because nobody had ever looked at her mother that way—not that she’d seen, and never for long.

A familiar ache settled behind her ribs. Before she could stop it, another memory surfaced.

Eighth-grade graduation.

The school gym smelled like floor wax and stale popcorn. Rows of folding chairs filled the basketball court. Every few minutes, the double doors opened and another parent walked in.

Aubrey remembered sitting in the front row, twisting the tassel on her cap while she watched the entrance.

Waiting.

Every time the doors opened, her stomach jumped.

Maybe this time.

Ted sat halfway back, alone, a bouquet resting across his lap.

The ceremony started. The chair stayed empty.

Afterward, Ted hugged her. Told her how proud he was. Took her to dinner. Bought her a ridiculous chocolate cake she hadn’t even asked for.

He made the whole day feel special. Almost.

But later that night she’d still checked her voicemail.

Nothing. Not even a message.

Aubrey swallowed hard.

Thirty-three years old, and it still hurt.