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8
Max
The steady beepingof the monitors keeping tabs on a heart that was slowly giving up its battle filled the room like a ticking clock. A clock counting down the minutes we had left with her.
She wasn’t my mother, but she was my mom.
No one could ever match or replace the love she supplied, the absolute acceptance she gave like it didn’t cost a thing. But I knew. I knew how expensive that shit was. How most people didn’t think I was worth that price tag.
Even my own biologics, who were so rich they spent money like water, didn’t think I was worth the cost.
It was why they beat me. Well,hedid. She just allowed it, which made her just as guilty. Imagine making something and then hating how it came out. But because you couldn’t get rid of the thing you made, you tried to break it and reshape it into what you hoped it had been all along.
Except people were not things. Children were not meant to be broken. Gluing broken pieces back together only made what you were trying to create filled with cracks that never quite fit together.
The Sinclairs loved me anyway. All chipped and cracked, never fitting together just right. They acted like I was seamless, treated me like I’d been made perfectly and didn’t need to be fixed.
And now the man I considered my dad was gone, a piece of me that could never be glued back into place because it was a piece I’d never see again. That missing piece hurt way more than any physical wound my father had ever inflicted. More than any of the mental abuse he hurled.
Funny how the absence of someone could hurt a million times worse than tangible abuse. In fact, I’d suffer those fists and take every insult to heart if it would bring him back. I’d take that pain and let it feast on me internally because it would be far better than knowing I’d never see my dad again.
“I’m proud of you.” It was the last thing he ever said to me. I would take a thousand beatings to give back those heartfelt words if I could have one more minute in his presence.
Rage rose, casting a murky shadow and consuming the insufferable pain my chest ached with. My heart burst into flames hotter than the sun, and I breathed heavily, asking myself why.
Why did death choose him and leave behind a man who deserved to be snuffed out?
Because death was an asshole—clearly, the worst kind of villain.
A small sound made my chin lift, and then two paper-white fingers lifted just barely off the mattress. I pushed off the wall instantly, swiping at my eyes and trying to stuff everything down.
“Max, honey,” Mom said when I was standing right beside her head. Her voice was weak, but I could hear her fine.
“Mom,” I said, slipping my hand around hers. “You’re going to be okay.”
Tears filled her eyes, one spilling over and rolling down the side of her face. “I think we both know better.”
My lips rolled in. The insurmountable pain squeezed my chest until I wanted to collapse. Instead, I stood there gripping her hand.
“It’s why I wanted to talk to you alone.” She spoke slowly as though it took effort to get out all the words, but despite her weakening state, her eyes sparked with determination.
Letting go of my fingers, she patted the mattress.
Swallowing, I sank on it, my hip and thigh brushing against her.
“You know you’re my son, right?”
I nodded.
“I don’t have two. I have three.”
I nodded again, blinking back the tears threatening to spill out of my eyes. I wouldn’t cry. I wouldn’t.
“I don’t want you to think because we never officially adopted you—”
“I know, Mom. I understand.”
Her hand fluttered into my lap, and I put mine over it, clinging. “I don’t want you to think we didn’t fight them hard enough. I just…” Her voice faded away, and she dragged in a wheezing breath.
