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I look at the guys, their expressions giving away nothing.
“When we were doing a background check on your father, we found your mother, as you can see,” Ilya explains. “Living in Paris.”
I open my mouth to speak but just snap it shut again. Words aren’t working for me at the moment.
“Honey, I have so much to tell you,” she says, moving toward the bed.
But I put out a hand to stop her.
I’m thoroughly confused by the myriad thoughts tumbling around my head, but two things are clear.
Why has she come?
And why should I give a shit?
After all, she bailed on Dad and me a long time ago. And what with my recent discovery about Dad, I am starting to get used to the idea that I have no parents. None at all. Betrayed by both, just in different ways, I’m writing Dad off just like I did Mom a long time ago.
“Wh… what are you doing here?” I finally stumble in a breaking voice.
Her face starts to crumble. “Oh, baby, I’ve missed you so much. I’ve dreamt of the day I would see you again.”
I frown at her. “If that’s the case, then why did you leave?”
Against my protests, she rushes to the bed and kneels down next to it, reaching for my hands, which she desperately clings to. “Oh, honey, he made me leave. Told me if I ever came back, both our lives would be in danger. He’s an evil, evil man.”
At this point, she hangs her head and quietly cries. But she has a death grip on my hands.
“Who? Who did this? Who sent you away?” I nearly called herMom. Nearly.
“Your father, honey. He’s the one who sent me away.”
* * *
16
ILYA
I’d be lyingif I didn’t admit to having a tear in my eye over the reunion of Abby and her mother. I suppose we should have left the room and given them some privacy, but we weren’t at all sure how things were going to go and wanted to be on hand in case the happy reunion went south.
As it is, things are awkward as fuck. No surprise there. What do you say to a mother you haven’t seen since you were five years old? What do you say to a daughter you left fifteen-plus years ago? And I thought my family situation was fucked up.
As it turns out, mother and daughter have a lot to say to each other.
“Honey, I know this situation is not ideal, but thank god you’re away from your father.”
Abby looks at her skeptically, as if she wants to believe. But she has no reason to trust this woman. Yet.
“What do you mean?” Abby asks in a flat voice, as if she’s trying to provoke. Can’t blame her. I’d be full of anger too.
“Honey, you’re nearly twenty-one. You will inherit your trust in a few days. You can’t let your father touch it, as much as he would like to. As much as he might pressure you to let him access it. Please don’t do it.”
Turmoil crosses Abby’s pretty face, not helped by the fact that she’s still pale from her bout with food poisoning. I make a mental note to ask Chef to put together another tray of chicken broth and tea.
“Why are you here?” she asks her mother, pointblank.
This is where I insert myself into the conversation. “Abby, we found your mom and brought her here. Her story is compelling. You need to hear it.”
She looks from me back to her mother. “What story? That you left Dad and me when I was five?”
