13.0
Alina was tugging crayons across the page in front of me, humming to herself, when my phone lit up with Aunt Lena's name. I almost let it go to voicemail, but something in me clicked, like muscle memory.
"Aunt Lena?" I asked as soon as I picked up.
"Yeah, baby, it's me." Her voice was warm, but there was a weight behind it, the kind that meant she wasn't just calling to say hi.
"It's been a long time," I said, unsure whether to sound apologetic or not.
"Too long," she agreed. Then, after a pause: "I didn't just call to hear your voice, though I missed it."
My chest tightened. "What is it?"
She hesitated, which wasn't like Lena. She was the kind of woman who barreled into sentences, who never sugarcoated. "It's your mom," she finally said.
I froze, the word lodging in me like a splinter. Mom. I hadn't said it out loud in years.
"What about her?"
"She's not well," Lena said. "Been sick for a while now, didn't want anybody knowing."
I leaned back against the counter, nails tapping wood. My laugh was short, brittle. "That sounds like her."
Lena's silence pressed against my ear. Not judgment, just patience.
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked, sharper than I meant to.
"Because you're her daughter," she said simply. "And because I know how things ended between you two. She wasn't fair to you, Amira. She wasn't kind. I saw it all. I know why you left, and I don't blame you."
My throat burned, sudden, unwanted. "She kicked me out."
"I know," Lena said softly. "Seventeen, just a baby yourself. She made her choices. I never thought they were right, but she's sick now, and I thought you'd want to know."
Alina wandered over and tugged at my shirt hem, holding up another crayon. I smoothed her curls back, whispering just a minute, while my heart was hammering so hard it felt like the phone might pick it up.
"I don't want to see her," I blurted.
"You don't have to," Lena said quickly, almost like she'd prepared for it. "That's your choice, baby. I wouldn't push you. If you never want to be in the same room with her again, I'd understand. God knows she didn't make it easy for you to love her."
The sympathy in her voice cracked me more than the news itself. I pressed a hand to my face, fighting back tears I hadn't asked for.
"I just thought," Lena went on gently, "that if something happens, and you didn't know, you'd feel cheated. I couldn't live with myself not telling you. Not after everything."
"I don't know what you want me to do," I whispered.
"I don't want you to do anything," Lena said. "I just wanted you to have the truth. What you do with it...that's yours."
Her voice carried the old strength I remembered, but softer now, edged with age and grief.
"Lena—" My words faltered. "She hated me."
"She didn't know how to love you the way you needed," Lena corrected. "That's different. Doesn't make it hurt any less, but it's different."
Alina tugged at my sleeve again, this time holding out her drawing. A crooked sun with a stick figure beside it—me, maybe? Or her? My heart lurched.
"Your little one?" Lena asked softly, hearing the background noise.
"Yeah," I said, barely more than a breath.
"I can tell you're a good mom," she said, without hesitation. "I can hear it in your voice."
That nearly undid me. I swallowed hard, biting down on the sob that wanted to break loose.
We stayed on the line longer than we needed to. Lena filled the silence with small things—how New York hadn't changed, how the deli down the block still made the best bagels, how her knees ached when it rained. She didn't mention my mom again, and I didn't ask.
When I hung up, I just sat there with the phone warm in my hand, staring at the wall like it might offer instructions.
It didn't.
Alina was tugging at my sleeve, showing me her crooked sun again, her eyes wide with the kind of hope only kids carried. I smiled for her, but it felt like a borrowed face.
The truth was, when Lena said your mom, my body didn't think of the woman sick in a bed somewhere. It thought of a door slamming. A suitcase on the stairs. Seventeen and scared and too proud to show it. I still hear the latch in my sleep sometimes.
And now here she was—sick, maybe dying—and I didn't know if I was supposed to care, or if caring made me weak, or if not caring made me cruel.
"Mommy," Alina said, holding her drawing higher until it nearly brushed my chin. "Look."
I bent down, kissed her forehead, and told her it was perfect. Her curls smelled like strawberries and crayons. My now. My anchor.
But Lena's words followed me like ghosts anyway.
By the time Tati knocked on my door later that afternoon, the knot in my chest hadn't loosened. I almost didn't answer, but Alina raced ahead and swung it open like she'd been waiting all day.
Tati swept in, a burst of perfume and laughter, Miles toddling behind her with his shoes half on. The house suddenly felt brighter, louder—full of life I hadn't realized I'd needed.
"The queen is here," she said, pulling me into a hug before I could even fake a smile.
Tati had barely set her tote bag down before Alina came barreling out of her room, Miles on her heels. Both of them were already shrieking with laughter, some game only they understood spilling into the living room. Tati just shook her head, smiling in that soft, tired way only moms do.
"Don't let them knock anything over," she warned, though her voice carried no heat.
"Everything in here's already been through worse," I said, dropping onto the couch.
She laughed, settling beside me with a sigh. Her perfume drifted between us, familiar, grounding. "You're telling me. Miles thinks he's spider-man and is constantly jumping on stuff and breaking them."
We both watched as the kids tore into Alina's toy bin. Their little voices mixed with the faint hum of traffic outside, the kind of background noise that made a home feel alive.
After a moment, Tati said, "It's good to be back in Philly. I didn't realize how much I missed it until we drove in."
"You miss the chaos?" I teased.
"Houston definitely has Philly near on certain things, but..." Her smile softened. "The people. You. Sam."
At the mention of Sam, my chest tightened, but I just nodded. "I ran into her the other day. At the shop. She wanted a wash and set and didn't know I worked there."
"How was it?"
"Honestly," I thought. "Not bad. I imagined it to be more awkward."
"Good," Tati said, stretching her legs out. "I need the three of us together again. It's been too long."
We let that sit. The truth was, I missed it too—the nights that ran too late, the stupid inside jokes no one else would've gotten. I missed the version of myself that existed in those memories.
The kids' laughter swelled, drawing our eyes again. Alina handed Miles a stuffed bear, and he clutched it like treasure. Tati chuckled. "Look at them. Who would've thought?"
I smiled, but the words caught in my throat. Watching them together—her son and my daughter—made something ache in me. Something I couldn't name.
To fill the silence, I said, "How's the planning going?"
She groaned, tilting her head back dramatically. "We're almost at the finish line, thank god, but the last thing I wanna talk about right now is wedding planning."
She reached for the juice box on the coffee table and took a sip "So, what about you? How's the shop?"
"It's steady," I said. "Long hours, but steady. I can't complain."
The kids came running through again, Miles yelling something about superheroes, Alina chasing after him. Their joy filled the apartment, but underneath it, I felt the silence pressing on me.
Almost without thinking, I said, "I saw Brooks."
Tati stilled, the juice box halfway to her mouth. But she didn't pounce, didn't press. She just lowered it, eyes steady on me. "When?"
"Last weekend. He called and..." I swallowed hard. "I met him."
Her face stayed calm, but her tone carried weight. "And?"
I stared at the floor. "We kissed."
Tati closed her eyes for a beat. When she opened them, she didn't scold, didn't sigh. Just said, "Amira."
"I know." My throat tightened. "I hate that I let it happen. I hate that I can't stop thinking about it. Every time I check my phone, I—" I stopped, pressing my palms together. "I wish it was him. And I hate that too."
The silence between us thickened. Finally, Tati said, "You're playing with fire. You know that."
"I know," I whispered.
She shifted a little, tucking one leg under her. "How is he? Did he... seem okay?"
The question caught me off guard. I blinked at her. "Why?"
"I saw a clip on the shade room," she said, eyes narrowing like she was weighing whether to bring it up. "Some conference, or maybe a fundraiser? He looked drunk. People in the comments were brutal."
I felt a rush of heat under my skin. Of course she'd seen it. Everyone had. And now, sitting here, the memory of his voice over the phone—low, unsteady, almost slurred—pressed into me.
"I don't know," I admitted. "He's... the same. Charming, apologetic, reckless. He sounded like he'd been drinking when he called. He sounded..." I trailed off, because the word that wanted to come out was lonely.
Tati tilted her head. "That was always my worry about him, even back then. He'd always been sweet every time I saw him privately but in the media it always gave he was playing a part he couldn't stand to live in."
Her words slid under my skin. Back then. She had always said he was dangerous for me—not because he was cruel, but because he was untethered.
"I used to think he'd outgrow it," I said quietly. "Now I'm not sure."
"You still believe he's the same person?"
"Part of me does," I whispered. "Part of me thinks... I am, too."
Tati reached over, squeezed my hand once. "That's not a reason to go back, Amira. Being the same doesn't mean you're meant to collide again."