28. Nina
Nina
T he first sign that something is wrong is the buzzing.
It starts before sunrise with my phone vibrating so much it nearly skitters off the nightstand. Then Evren’s starts.
Is it related to Harold? Glam Pop? My mom? The possibilities are endless at this point.
“What is it this time?” I ask Evren, my voice heavy with exhaustion.
“It’s too early.” Evren grabs his phone and reads something on it before flipping the screen toward me. On it is a headline that says, “Evren Kaya is Hiding Secret Baby with Designer Girlfriend!”
“Oh fuck,” I mutter, grabbing his phone and searching Evren’s name.
Headline after headline after headline stares back at me.
I click on one of the articles and it references an inside source that says, “ Nina’s officially two months pregnant, but Evren wants to keep it a secret until the baby is born… ”
Deep in my bones, I know my mom is behind this, that she’s the secret source.
The realization hits like a fist to the ribs, knocking the air from my lungs.
My fingers go numb around the phone, the screen blurring as my vision tunnels.
A high-pitched buzz fills my ears and I shove the phone back in Evren’s hands.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, but all I see are headlines, comments, the inevitable tidal wave of pity and gossip.
“Breathe,” Evren says softly, rubbing my back. “Don’t spiral.”
I let out a short, sharp laugh. Spiraling would require energy, and I don’t have any left after the past couple days.
“I blocked her,” I whisper. “We filed the temporary restraining order. I?—”
“I know.” Evren’s jaw flexes. He reaches for me, pulling me into his chest. “This isn’t on you.”
“I told you she won’t stop, she never does. Maybe we should just give her some money? Stop it all before it gets worse?” Stop it all before he changes his mind and doesn’t want to be with me anymore.
“Let me handle this.” Evren cups the back of my head, strong and solid and here. “We’ll put out a statement. Send a cease and desist. You don’t have to do anything.”
“She’ll just find another way,” I whisper.
“Maybe, but we’ll work through it together.”
When Evren leaves for work, I try throwing myself into decorating Stella’s house, but I can’t get into it.
I end up staring at the walls more than painting them.
All I can focus on is Mom and her next move.
How far is she willing to go? What’s her endgame?
Endless questions coil tighter with every passing hour, like a snake eating its own tail.
Around lunchtime, screaming sounds from outside followed by my phone ringing. It’s Nate.
“Hi,” I answer.
“Your mom’s outside,” Nate says, voice calm, but firm. “She’s demanding to see you.”
“I…” My breath catches. My throat tightens.
“Stay inside. We’ll handle it. She’s not getting past us.”
For a second, I just stand there, stunned. Then relief fills me
It’s unexpected having someone else take the lead. Having people like Evren and Nate on my side running interference. Keeping her out. Keeping me safe.
Maybe this is what I was missing all along. Not strength. Not toughness. Just backup.
More yelling filters in from the front door. A car door slams. Tires squeal.
And I breathe out—long and shaky.
Huh, maybe I can do this? Maybe I can hold the boundary. Maybe I won’t cave this time. Maybe I won’t be alone.
Hours later there’s more shouting. Another security alert. Nate calls.
“She’s back,” he says. “Again.”
I shouldn't look. But I do.
Peeking through the curtain, I catch sight of her on the driveway—barely recognizable. Her hair is a mess, her clothes look slept in. Her makeup is smeared. She looks like she’s falling apart.
And just like that, I feel it—the old tug in my chest of guilt, thick and immediate.
The security guards hold the line. Nate is talking to her calmly, but she’s shaking her head.
Then her voice rises above it all. “Niiina. I just want to talk and to apologize. I have a problem. I-I want help.”
I freeze.
She’s never said those words before. Not once. Not when I begged. Not when I cried. Every time I hinted that she might need help, she turned it on me—made me feel like the ungrateful one or that I was the one with the problem.
But now? Now she’s saying everything I’ve spent years praying to hear.
Maybe this time is different. Maybe this is the fragile, beautiful beginning of the mother I’ve never stopped hoping for.
For the first time in so long, I let myself believe—this could be it.
The moment she changes. The moment she chooses me.
Before I think it through, my feet are moving—racing down the stairs, throwing open the front door, skidding to a stop in front of her.
“Are you serious?” I whisper, scanning her face for any sign of a lie.
Her eyes brim with something close to tears. “Yes,” she says. “I’m so sorry. For everything.”
Something in me unknots and in its place, hope blooms, reckless and full.
“Do you want to come inside and talk?” I ask.
“Nina…” Nate’s voice is low, warning. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“She’s my mom,” I say, too fast. Already turning. “You can sit with us if it makes you more comfortable.”
“I’d love to,” Mom says, coming to my side and wrapping an arm around me.
She leans into my side, her warmth seeping through the thin fabric of my shirt, and for a fleeting moment, it’s as if we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.
As if the fractures between us never existed.
The weight of her against me feels like forgiveness, like a silent promise neither of us has dared to speak aloud.
And I like it. More than I should. More than I’ll ever admit out loud.
The living room feels surreal as we settle in—same couches, same room—but everything feels hopeful now. Nate stands by the wall, arms crossed, silent and watching.
She turns toward me, tucking one leg beneath her, the other on the floor. I do the same, like we’re mirroring each other without thinking .
“I’m so sorry,” she says again, voice soft. “I know I’ve hurt you.”
“I…”The word hangs between us, fragile and unfinished.
My throat tightens around all the things I can't bring myself to say— I want to trust you. I need this to be true. The ache of it is sharp, relentless, a blade pressed against my ribs. Iwantto believe her, but there’s already been too much emotional bloodshed between us.
“I haven’t been the best mom to you, but I want to make it right.”
“How?” I ask.
“By getting clean. By making amends. By really showing up for you.” Her voice wobbles, and it feels so real.
I blink hard, and the world tilts. Somewhere in the wreckage of me, a warning flares: Don’t. You know how this ends.
But the fire gutters out, drowned in the quiet, in thewanting, in the desire to help her.
“I’d like that,” I whisper.
“Me too.” She pats my leg gently, like we’re close. “But first, let me use the bathroom, and then we can look up treatment centers together, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, voice small. Hopeful. Still afraid.
She disappears down the hallway, heading to the bathroom. Her steps are slow, but steady. Confident, almost.
Nate and I wait in silence, the quiet stretching between us like held breath. His brow furrows, almost skeptical, but I don’t let it shake me. Instead, I give a small, convinced nod—more to myself than to him—because for the first time in so long, I need this to be real.
This is happening. She’s finally ready. She’s really going to get clean. She apologized and wants to now get help.
The words echo through me like sunlight breaking through a storm cloud.
A soft kind of joy floats up in my chest, giddy and disbelieving. I can’t stop the smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
Maybe this is what it feels like to win a battle you never thought you could.
Maybe holding the boundary worked.
Maybe this time, she saw I was serious and chose to change.
“Don’t you think she’s taking a while to pee?” Nate says, cutting through the moment.
I blink. “It’s only been a minute.”
He gives me a long look. “It’s been five.”
A chill rushes up my spine.
Without speaking, I rise to my feet. Nate follows, tense and alert behind me. The hallway feels longer than it should, like the air has thickened somehow.
I knock on the door. Lightly at first.
“Mom?”
Silence.
A second knock, harder. “Mom, are you okay?”
Nothing.
“Step back,” Nate demands. He moves past me and slams his heel into the door with a sharp, brutal crack. The wood splinters and the door swings inward.
The world slows.
She’s collapsed on the tile. Slumped against the bathtub. Her limbs tangled and loose.
A bottle of pills clutched in her hand like a weapon. Her eyes are half-lidded, and her lips are blue.
Time stutters.
I can’t process what I’m looking at.
No.
No, no, no.
This isn’t?—
We were just?—
She said?—
Nate drops to his knees, and checks her pulse. His jaw tightens. “Fuck.” He’s already dialing 911.
I can’t move. I’m frozen just inside the doorway, staring at her limp body, still trying to fit the pieces together. Like maybe if I just focus hard enough, it’ll rearrange into something that makes sense.
But it doesn’t.
It won’t.
Because she overdosed. On purpose.
Even though she said she wanted help.
Even though she said she wanted to change.
Even though she said she was sorry.
A dry sob tears up through my throat. I stumble backward into the hallway wall, my hands trembling, my stomach lurching. I don’t understand what’s happening, but it can’t be real. It can’t . It must be a mistake. She wouldn’t do this. Not now, not when she’s finally ready to change.
Right?
I blink, and paramedics are swarming the room. Blink again, and I’m in the back of the ambulance, knees pulled to my chest, my arms numb.
Her face floats in and out of view—pale, lifeless, tubes shoved down her throat.
Blink.
We’re at the hospital. The lights are too bright. Everything is too loud and too fast and not real.