Chapter Twenty-Two
Leila
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, my body heavy as if the weight of my grief is sinking me into the mattress.
It’s been over a month now since I got that phone call.
The moment they told me my mother had killed herself, it felt like something inside me shattered and scattered into pieces that I still can’t find.
I haven’t left this house since. I’ve barely moved.
I think about how people keep trying to pull me out of this, out of myself.
Cassie, my sister, came all the way out here to this vacation house in the woods.
I know it wasn’t easy for her. She’s pregnant, for goodness’ sake, and I know she worries.
I heard her voice through the door, soft and pleading.
But I couldn’t face her. I can’t face anyone.
It’s not about love; I love her more than I can even say, but I just couldn’t.
There’s something in me that refuses to move, something like shame or regret that’s so heavy it’s paralyzing.
And then there was Danae, my best friend.
She came too, knocking and knocking, saying she was there for me, saying I didn’t have to do this alone.
I wanted to answer. I even stood there, my hand on the knob, wanting to open it.
But I didn’t. The strength just vanished.
It’s like this invisible wall rises up between me and everyone who tries to reach me.
And all I can do is sit behind it, trapped in this suffocating silence.
But it’s not just the grief that’s choking me.
It’s the guilt. The kind that lingers in the corners of your mind, whispering accusations you can’t escape.
I keep thinking about the last time I saw my mother.
How long ago was it? I didn’t visit her in prison.
I didn’t even call. I convinced myself it was better that way and that it was easier to let the past be the past and let her fade away.
I was angry. I was hurt. And I didn’t want to deal with it.
Now, I can’t stop thinking about all the times I could have picked up the phone but didn’t—every time I could have reached out but chose to stay silent instead. Maybe if I had done something, anything, she wouldn’t have felt so alone. Maybe if I had tried, just tried, she’d still be here.
The guilt clings to me like a second skin. It wraps itself around my heart and won’t let go. I feel it everywhere, in the quiet of the house and in the long nights that stretch on endlessly.
I couldn’t even make it to the police station.
I know I should have, but the thought of going there or speaking to anyone about her was unbearable.
The officer sent me all of her voice messages, every one she had recorded for me while she was in prison.
They sit there on my phone, like a load pressing down on my chest, and even listening to them feels like slowly bleeding out.
I’ve only made it halfway through. Each word she says feels like it's deepening the hollowness inside me and like she’s reaching through the distance to pull me into some dark abyss where there’s no escaping the pain.
Her voice. That voice. I hear it, and it’s like the grief punches through me all over again.
She’s speaking to me, asking if I’ll reach out soon, telling me she’d like to see me and hoping that I’m alright.
Every syllable tears at me, clawing at my insides.
And it’s not just the sadness in her voice that breaks me, though I hear it there, no matter how much she tries to hide it.
It’s the way she still reached out and tried to connect even when I stayed silent.
The last message, the one that’s burned into my mind, the one I can’t stop playing over and over, it’s almost too much to bear.
“Hi, Lei… I’m here, sending another voice message again.
I hope it gets to you.” She’s trying to sound upbeat, trying to be casual, but there’s this sadness woven into her words, like a thread she can’t quite hide.
“Just wanted to let you know that I’m doing okay…
things here are not too bad, and Officer Rhodes has been kind enough to let me send messages every week… ”
Her voice trembles, and I can hear it, the way her attempt at lightness falls apart as she goes on.
“My dear daughter... I just... I just want to let you know that I am sorry. I’m sorry for how hard I was on you as a child.
For how hard I pushed you and bullied you.
I’m sorry for what I did to your sister and.
.. and her mom.” She pauses, her breath hitching.
“I will pay for it for the rest of my life. All I truly wanted was for you to be the best. I wanted my daughter to be the best Omega, to get married to the best Alpha... to be the best at everything. But I went too far. I recognize now that these words may not mean much, but I need you to know that I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Leila.”
The sobs that come through the recording are only matched by my own.
The second I stop the message, I’m crumbling, gasping, my face buried in my hands.
Her voice echoes in my mind, filling the silence of this room, and I can’t get it out.
I can’t stop hearing her saying she’s sorry and that she regrets everything.
I hate that part of me feels like I deserve this crushing guilt.
Maybe I do. Maybe it’s the price for all the times I didn’t pick up the phone, didn’t visit, and didn’t try.
I’ve spent so much time being angry, angry at her, and angry at everything, and now I’m drowning in it.
While I was busy caring about how the press was tearing me apart and about how much ridicule I was getting, I wasn’t caring about her.
And now it’s too late. Maybe I deserve to feel this guilty.
The one thing that has kept me tethered to this world, the one fragile thread I cling to, has been their words.
Ryan, Henry, and Luke, each of them, in their own way, has kept me from falling apart completely.
I don’t know how they do it, how they manage to reach me when I’ve locked myself away so tightly, but they do.
Every day, they come to the door, taking turns like some unspoken rotation they’ve agreed upon.
I can’t bring myself to open it and step out and face them, but I hear them.
And somehow, even without their arms around me, without the warmth of their touch, their words seep through the cracks in my defenses.
My silence and my distance must hurt them, but they never let it show.
Each day, one of them stands outside my door and speaks to me, telling me the same thing: that they’re here and they aren’t going anywhere.
Their voices are steady and unyielding, always so full of quiet strength as though they believe their presence alone will keep me safe.
They tell me I can take all the time I need, that they trust me, and that they believe in me.
And somehow, despite everything, I believe them.
They’ve cared for me in ways I don’t deserve.
They’ve cooked the meals I’ve managed to eat, left them outside my door, and waited until I’ve taken the plate before walking away.
There’s a patience in them, a quiet understanding that humbles me.
Not one of them has left. Their voices are a constant, echoing through my grief, breaking through the silence.
It’s their love and unwavering belief in me that has become the only thing anchoring me to myself.
And in their love, I’ve found something I can’t explain.
A tiny spark, buried deep within the wreckage of my grief and guilt, flickers to life each time I hear their voices.
It’s so faint, so fragile, but it’s there.
Without even knowing it, they’ve sown in me a motivation to reach for something better and to reach for the light, however dim it may seem.
It’s because of them that I find myself, because of them that I somehow find the courage to reach for the phone.
I know I will never be able to be at peace if I don’t hear the rest of the recordings.
I need to, but just as importantly, those three men need me to.
Their words have pushed me, little by little, to this moment.
Each time they tell me how strong they think I am, something inside me stirs.
I don’t know if they’re right, but I want to believe them.
And maybe, just maybe, I’m ready to prove them right.
I open my mother’s messages again, bracing myself. Her voice spills into the room once more, and this time, I listen. I listen to it all. Because if they believe I’m strong enough, maybe I am.
Her voice keeps filtering through, each message unraveling another layer of her regret and another glimpse into the pain that haunted her in those final days.
Every word deepens my understanding of just how much she carried and how heavy her guilt must have been.
But then there’s the last message, the one that breaks something open inside me.
This one is different. There’s a lightness in her voice, a strange, almost unsettling brightness, as though she’s found some sense of peace.
It’s as if the decision she’d made, her final decision, had freed her somehow.
She no longer sounds burdened by the weight of what she’s done.
But it’s not the tone of her voice that lingers. It’s her words.
“Hello, Lei. Me again. Another voice message. I really wish I could hear from you, sweetie, but I understand that it might be hard for you.” There’s a pause, and I imagine her sitting there, trying to find the right words, words that won’t break the silence between us but instead fill it with something else.
“I’ve spoken to some of the officers, and they tell me they see you from time to time in the city and that you’re fine and safe. I’m glad…”