Page 25
“No, you said you came so Dad would move back home. That’s not peace, Mom. That’s a bribe.”
Her eyes flicker. “Your father has been staying at a hotel in Newton for two weeks. He says he won’t come back until things are resolved between us.”
“So what—you thought you’d ambush me and check reconciliation off your to-do list?”
“I thought we could talk. Civilly.” Her gaze sweeps the open space, taking in the high ceilings, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, and Kingston’s signed jerseys in glossy black frames. “Upstairs felt more…appropriate.”
“Sure,” I mutter. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation—just in case one of the Newton church ladies has telescopic vision and a gossip hotline to Manhattan.”
We move toward the kitchen island, the silence pressing tighter with every step. I put the kettle on autopilot, reaching for the chamomile tea she always drinks like it’s holy water. Something about digestion and calming her nerves, even though I’ve never actually seen her relax.
“I like what Kingston’s done with the place,” she says, voice dry. “Very…masculine. A little cold.”
“It’s not a showroom, Mom. We live here.”
We. That single word lands heavy between us.
She takes the tea I hand her but doesn’t sip it right away. She just studies me, eyes moving from the curve of my belly to the oversized knit sweater I’m wearing over leggings, her lips twitching like she wants to say something but is still weighing whether or not it’s worth the trouble.
It always is.
“You’re really going through with this, aren’t you?” she finally asks.
“With what?” I feign innocence, though I know exactly what she means.
“This life. Living with a man who isn’t the father of your children. Carrying twins with no ring on your finger. It’s not how we raised you, Mya.”
I laugh. Not because it’s funny. Because it’s so fucking on brand.
“You didn’t raise me, Mom. You judged me. There’s a difference.”
Her eyes narrow, the lashes clumping just slightly from her mascara. “Don’t be dramatic. You’ve always been difficult. The defiant one. The free spirit.”
“That’s code for black sheep, right?” I cross my arms, bracing myself.
She doesn’t deny it. “You’ve always been different from your siblings. Carlos is a respected doctor. Franky’s a lawyer with his own firm. Isabel is happily married with a beautiful home in Connecticut, and Sofia is about to graduate summa cum laude from Stanford.”
“Yeah. And I’m pregnant. And unmarried. And apparently a cautionary tale.”
The silence between us fractures like thin ice.
“I’m not here to shame you,” she says quietly, but her voice lacks any real softness. “I just… I wish you’d think about your future more carefully. About how things look.”
I laugh again, this one sharper. “Oh my God. You’re still stuck on appearances? On what the ladies at the prayer circle will whisper if they find out your daughter is having twins out of wedlock?”
Her nostrils flare, the only sign that I’m getting under her skin.
“You know,” I say, “when Kyle cheated on me, you didn’t ask if I was okay. You said I must’ve done something to make him stray. As if his actions were somehow my fault.”
Her mouth tightens. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Really?” I cock a brow. “Because it’s always felt like you saw me as the family embarrassment. The one who doesn’t fit your picture-perfect mold. The one who’s too loud, too bold, too messy.”
“You made choices, Mya.”
“So did you!” I slam my hand against the counter, my voice cracking. “You chose to love image more than your own daughter. To use Dad like a buffer whenever I pushed back. You chose to show up now, when your marriage is on the line—not because you wanted to reconnect, but because you needed me to fix something for you.”
She blinks. “That’s not true.”
