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Her cleaning was obviously done since she was wearing a long skirt, a sensible blouse, and her hair was pulled back into a tight bun.
She wasn’t wearing makeup. My mother never wore makeup. She’d never needed to. She’d always been stunning. Her dark hair was shiny, full. Her eyes were hazel and arresting. Her features were delicate, like the rest of her. She was trim, short. My mother kept in shape.
Her hair was streaked with gray now. Her face had more lines. She was still lovely.
It took her a moment to recognize me since she was focused on Colby for a few moments, clutching the door as if preparing to slam it in his face.
My mother excelled at judging a book by its cover. I was honestly surprised she didn’t call the police then and there.
“Hi, Mom,” I said, my voice weak and small.
Her entire body jerked as she looked at me. Really looked at me, blinking rapidly as she took me in.
I’d been intentional with my outfit. I didn’t make an effort to conform to what would make my parents more comfortable. They had to see me for … me, such as I was. Though it was a toned-down version of the ‘me’ I was before the attack. Plus, I had limited space in Colby’s saddlebag. I was wearing black leather pants and the boots that Colby had bought me. My black tee was skintight and would’ve been cropped in another life. But the one I wore was long, tucked into my pants to ensure no scarred skin was on display.
My hair was down in wild curls, and my makeup was dark and over the top, complete with red lipstick. I’d felt the need to wear armor. Fuck, I’d been half tempted to stitch a scarlet ‘A’ to the breast of my tee but decided that was pushing it a little far.
I held my breath, waiting for it. Waiting for my mother to take stock of me and for me to come up lacking. But when her eyes met mine, they were glassy.
“Praise God,” she murmured. “Praise God,” she repeated louder.
“John!” she shouted, her voice hoarse. “John! Come here, our girl is finally home.”
Then to my utter shock, my mother snatched me from Colby and pulled me into an embrace.
I was so shocked, I even hugged her back.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
It was safe to say I was on unsteady ground. I’d arrived prepared to do battle. Prepared for the disappointment, the hurt. I’d truly come for closure. So I could shut these people out of my life. So I would no longer wonder. So I could put them firmly in their box then reassure myself that I hadn’t done anything wrong by cutting them out of my life.
But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t nurture a small hope, deep down, that something else would happen. That my parents would hug me, love me, make me feel worth … something.
The reality was, that love was harder to weather than their disappointment.
My father had indeed come running to the front door, though he’d had a slightly more reserved response than my mother originally had. But he did hold me in his arms for a long time, his tears wetting my hair.
My father looked older too. His hair was still dark, full, with liberal streaks of gray. He was clean shaven as always. His silvery gray eyes were surrounded by lines. He was wearing a wrinkle free blue shirt and beige slacks. He wasn’t quite as large as I’d perceived him to be as a kid, but he was tall, stocky. He had always taken care of his body, but he still enjoyed eating and didn’t exercise a whole bunch.
When he let me go, awkward introductions were made to Colby. My mother had shaken his hand enthusiastically saying, “Thank you, thank you for bringing my daughter home.”
“She brought herself,” he returned. “I just gave her the ride.”
The front door was still open at that point. When my mother’s gaze landed on the motorcycle at the curb, I swear, she didn’t even blink.
“Come inside, you must be starving,” she urged. She didn’t even ask Colby to move his bike somewhere down the street or hide it in the garage. Hell must’ve frozen over while I wasn’t looking.
Things had been somewhat of a blur since then. My mother and father stumbling over each other to feed us, make us comfortable. Both of them kept staring at me, not in judgment, but almost as if they expected me to disappear.
Dinner was how I remembered them to be. Everything made from scratch, including the bread. My mother didn’t believe in anything processed. We were served water or fresh juice. Neither of my parents drank. I was aching for a cocktail.
We ate in the formal dining room, a lace runner in the middle of the table, candlesticks and white China salt and pepper shakers arranged neatly.
