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It was dark outside, the light in the bedroom dim. Yet he could see Lia’s face and the determination written all over it with absolute crystal clarity.
She always looked that way when she was determined to challenge and push him, and most of the time he’d let her. Except there were some things he didn’t want to discuss with her and that photo was one of those things.
It was a picture of one of the happiest times in his life. When for whatever reason, he was never sure, his mother had taken him to the playground. And for an hour or two it was as though she’d forgotten what he represented, as if he was simply her son and she loved him, not the constant reminder of the worst moment of her life.
He’d kept that photo because it was the only one he had of her smiling and it had felt important that he remember that smile, especially when he could count on one hand the number of times she’d smiled at him.
But he didn’t want to tell Lia that.
He didn’t want to discuss his mother with her at all.
‘Fine,’ he said casually, because all he had about this particular topic was casual. ‘You’re right, that’s me and my mother. I keep the picture to remind me that she was happy once.’
Lia’s expression turned suddenly soft, that almost tender look crossing her delicate face. The one that made his chest feel as if an iron band was crushing it. ‘She looks very happy. She must have loved you a lot.’
‘I think you’re assuming she felt some motherly feelings towards me.’ He bared his teeth in a facsimile of a smile. ‘She did not.’
The soft expression on her face faded. ‘What do you mean she did not?’
‘I told you earlier. She looked after me because it was her duty, but there was too much of my father in me for her to care about me.’
Lia’s blue gaze widened. ‘She actually said that to you?’
‘Si.And often.’ So he’d tried to prove to her that he was nothing like Carlos. Endlessly. Trying hard not to lose his temper, trying hard to do what he was told and study hard, and treat his mother gently and kindly. To make up for the sin of being born.
Then she’d died and he didn’t have to do it any more, but by that stage he’d realised that the easier way was just to cut those feelings out of his heart. To not feel them at all.
So, he hadn’t.
‘Oh, Rafael,’ Lia murmured, crossing the distance between them. ‘That’s awful.’ She put her hands on his chest, her palms warming his skin through his shirt. ‘Why would she say that?’
He wanted to be angry, to hold on to the sullen, burning flame in his heart, but he couldn’t. It felt as if the pressure of Lia’s hands were stripping that anger away, leaving underneath the raw wound of the truth.
A truth he couldn’t tell her, because it was his mother’s and she was gone.
All he had left was the half-truth.
‘Because she was angry that she had me. She had...plans for her future and I got in the way.’ He brushed a strand of black hair back behind her ear, unable to stop the casual touch. ‘She didn’t like me making a fuss or throwing a tantrum or being difficult. She would tell me I had to be careful, that I had to be measured and considerate in my behaviour in case I turned into Carlos.’
The crease between her brows deepened. ‘But...kids are like that. I was like that.’
‘Not all kids. She set an example for me and I followed it.’ He reached for her wrists, circling them with his fingers and pulling them gently away. ‘Let’s have dinner. It’ll be on the table by now.’
But Lia’s chin had a familiar stubborn slant to it. ‘What kind of example? I mean, that’s ridiculous. You don’t have to practise not being like Carlos, Rafael. You justaren’thim. Why on earth would you think that you are?’
The heat smouldering inside him flared. ‘It wasn’t my mother’s fault. I was an angry child and that only got worse as I got older. I was wilful, stubborn and I had a temper, just like Carlos had a temper, and that frightened her.’
Lia was still frowning. ‘But all children throw tantrums. And being wilful and stubborn aren’t exactly unusual traits.’
The hot coals that sat in his gut glowed hotter, the iron band around his chest tightening yet again. Anger and pain, two things he’d cut out of his heart and never wanted to feel again.
Clearly it was time to end this conversation.
‘Do you have a point, Lia?’ He tried to keep his tone moderate the way he always did. ‘Our dinner will get cold and Constanza will not be impressed.’
‘I don’t care about Constanza,’ Lia said. ‘I’m still trying to figure out why you think you’re like your father.’
‘What does it matter?’ Impatience was creeping into his voice. ‘Carlos is dead and so is my mother.’
