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“I’m going to do this alone,” I tell him.
“Cass.” He takes a deep breath and studies my face. “Are you sure?”
I nod resolutely. This needs to happen. I need to call her out on this. My mind’s not dwelling on the legal ramifications. Like having her charged with kidnapping, like getting my daughter back, like… oh, hell, there are so many likes, but I’m more focused on one thing at the moment. Telling my mother that I know and hearing her excuses. Sure, she’ll call them reasons, but after what she did, how she did it, they are no more than pathetic, devious excuses to me.
Josh hands me my cell. It was on the seat between us. “I’ll be at the house. Call me when you’re ready to go.”
I spare a thought to wonder what he’s going to do at his father’s house, now empty, forlorn, no doubt, but then I bring myself back to the task at hand. I open the door, slip out and close it, square my shoulders and make my way to the front door.
Even if it’s locked, I know where the spare is, assuming no one moved it.
The envelope Josh had given me is in my back pocket, still unopened.
Let’s see where this goes, if it gets opened, along with the rest of the cans of worms I need to unleash on my mother.
41
MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS
CASSIE
My mother looks up from her coffee at the kitchen table where she’s perusing a realtor publication. The shock on her face is tangible. It fills the air with uncertainty and confusion. Hers. Not mine. I’ve never been clearer on anything in my life. Yup. No uncertainty or confusion in me. This needs to happen.
“Your father’s not here,” she announces.
“I didn’t come to see him.”
She nods, waits. Never one to give up an advantage, she’s waiting for me to put my cards on the table. My mind’s racing. I still haven’t come up with what I’m going to say. What actually comes out surprises me.
“My daughter is beautiful. She’s the spitting image of her father.”
Her face twists and contorts into an array of emotions, and none of them are kind, good, or pleasant. She swallows, and there’s clearly a lump in her throat.
Is it wrong of me to wish she’d choke on it? How can a girl even feel that about her own mother? Do I really feel it, or is this rage? Plain and simple rage?
“You said she died,” I accuse.
Still no response.
“Say something.” I grit the words out because she owes me this. She owes me something.
“What do you want me to say?” Her voice is small, so very unlike the mother I grew up with.
“Start with the truth,” I hurl the words at her, unflinching and unyielding.
She exhales, picks up her mug, puts it to her lips, then sets it down without taking a sip. “I did what I thought was right.”
It’s hard not to hate her right now. Wait. No. Maybe I do hate her. Yeah, I think I do. No, make that, I’m sure I do. So I press. “Right for who?”
“You?” She says it like it’s a question.
“No,” I indict her. “You did what was right for you. You couldn’t have me giving birth to Josh’s child. You couldn’t have me—”
“I didn’t want to see your life ruined. Your life a mess, as much as mine has become.”
I’m stunned. Couldn’t possibly be more taken aback. How did this become about her? What mess? She has worked so damned hard to build the perfect illusion of a life. Perfect job, perfect husband, perfect children, perfect reputation, perf—
She continues, “I know you don’t see it. You can’t possibly underst—”
