Chapter 63
Chapter Sixty-Three
Mara
“You love him?” Mila asks as she brushes her teeth, speaking around the foamy toothpaste as if this is a perfectly normal morning conversation.
“We’re brushing our teeth, remember?” I’m standing beside her, toothpaste on my own brush, feeling woefully unprepared for this particular interrogation. Alec and I haven’t even discussed what we are, and yet here I am in the bathroom with a child who could out-interview Barbara Walters.
“You can’t keep me quiet forever,” she says between strokes, eyes narrowing at me in the mirror.
She’s right. I could attempt to distract her, redirect her, confuse her with existential questions—from dental hygiene to the ecosystem or all the animal species—but that would require more mental energy than simply being honest in the gentlest way possible.
“It’s—”
“Don’t say temporary.” She points the toothbrush at me like a tiny prosecuting attorney.
“No.” I rinse my mouth, thinking quickly. “It’s more like . . . something the adults need to discuss before we tell you exactly what’s happening.”
She squints, unconvinced. “So, can I have a baby sister by the end of summer?”
“Ugh.” The sound escapes me before any rational thought forms.
“That sounds like a no.”
“Mila,” I say, turning to face her fully, “I love your inquisitive mind, but sometimes you have to accept when adults ask you to wait. This is definitely one of those moments. Can you live with that?”
She studies me for a few seconds—calculating, assessing, considering the odds—and then relents. “Fine. But when can we talk?”
“Probably next month,” I say, hoping the word probably buys me enough time to breathe. Realistically, Alec and I might need to have that adult conversation within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours, but she doesn’t need that detail.
I still can’t believe she caught us. All it took was one night of exhaustion, one late conversation turning into . . . well, more. Us. We’re together, aren’t we?
He said “I love you.” We feel the same. It’s just a matter of doing the whole ‘what will this look like’ deal. But of course before I can do that, our eight-year-old detective is piecing together clues we didn’t mean to leave out.
As if things can’t get worse, noise erupts from the kitchen—pans clattering, voices layered and far too familiar. Mila lifts her head.
“That’s Grandma,” she squeals, immediately returning to brushing her teeth at lightning speed.
My stomach drops. Of course things can get worse. Of course this morning wasn’t chaotic enough. I walk down the hall, heart pounding, because the last thing I need is my mother opening her mouth before I’ve prepared myself.
“Mother?” I call out as I step into the kitchen, glaring at her as she turns toward me.
“My sweet Mara,” she cries, rushing forward to pull me into a hug.
Her perfume hits me before her arms do—floral and nostalgic in a way that both comforts and overwhelms. Behind her, Alec stands frozen in the corner with his hands lifted as if saying, Don’t look at me. I’ve got nothing to do with her visit.
“Grandma!” Mila rushes in and throws herself into my mother’s arms.
My mother’s entire face lights up, her energy instantly softening.
They fall into a warm tangle of greetings—Mila telling her everything she’s missed since the last phone call, my mother making delighted little sounds as if each detail is a priceless treasure.
Mila practically floats as she talks, arms wrapped around her grandmother’s waist.
I step back toward Alec, lowering my voice. “Why is she here?”
“The lawyer facilitated my visit,” my mother announces loudly, proving her hearing is still superhuman. “Mr. Hanley is a peach. How old is he?”
“Mom, please don’t start.” My mortification threatens to climb up my throat. The idea of her flirting with my attorney—or worse, trying to set me up—is enough to make me want to crawl into a cabinet.
“Fine,” she sighs dramatically. Then she glances at Alec. “If not him, there’s always your neighbor. Such a great man.”
“Mom,” I warn her, heat crawling up my neck.
“Oh, they already kissed, Grandma,” Mila announces proudly, because of course she does. She never misses the chance to deliver breaking news.
My mother’s eyebrows lift in delighted curiosity. “Did they now?”
“Mom, why are you here?” I ask quickly, shifting attention anywhere but Alec, who is studying the ceiling with the expression of a man praying for divine intervention.
“You weren’t speaking to me,” she replies simply. “I needed to figure out how to fix that. You’re my child.”
I open my mouth—ready to say I’m not—but Alec shakes his head gently behind her, and the reminder sinks in.
We’ve talked through this. I keep telling myself that my anger is valid, that my confusion is real, that what she hid from me changed everything .
. . but none of that erases the love she gave me since the day I was placed in her arms. Her personality may drive me fucking insane, but she loved me with every atom she has.
This is why I didn’t want her here yet. Because I’m afraid of hurting her. Because I’m still sorting through all the pieces of myself they unknowingly fractured.
“Why don’t we have breakfast?” I suggest, forcing a breath. “Mila has an early class, and we can talk after.”
“I’m learning French,” Mila chirps, bouncing on her toes. “I know lots of words, but I want to be fluent next time we go.”
“You’re going to France?” Mom frowns. “I thought you’d be here for at least a year—that’s what Mr. Hanley told me.”
Of course he told her that.
“No, we’re going with his bandmate-riends.” Mila points at Alec.
I shoot Alec a look. He gives me the most innocent shrug imaginable. Of course this is him—and his friends, and their newfound obsession with traveling the world now that they finally have time to breathe.
And just like that, my morning transforms into something fragile, complicated, and tangled—hope sitting beside anger, longing brushing against fear, and somewhere in the middle, the quiet truth I haven’t told anyone yet.
I love Alec. And I have absolutely no idea what happens next, but it shouldn’t involve my meddling mother.
Once Mila’s tutor arrives, Mom and I move into the office I almost never use.
Through the closed door, I can faintly hear Mila greeting her tutor and Alec speaking French in that low voice he uses when he’s concentrating.
It gives me nearly two hours alone with the woman who raised me.
Almost two hours to peel back truths we’ve been avoiding for years—mostly Mom.
“I’m still mad at you,” I say, turning to face her. My throat tightens, my palms warm. “You should’ve told me.”
Mom nods, but her gaze drops to her hands. “There was never a good time,” she murmurs. “My parents—”
“I know,” I cut in gently. “They would’ve judged you and punished my aunt. They would’ve judged all of us. But you could have told me when I was older. When I could handle it.”
She shakes her head, eyes glistening. “No. Because Mario didn’t want her involved with you at all.”
My chest lifts in confusion. “What? Why?”
“The man was possessive,” she says, voice trembling with something old and raw. “I would even say abusive, but Lina never agreed with that word. They dated in college . . . he asked her to marry him. She refused, and they broke up.”
“Why go back to him?” My voice cracks despite my best effort to stay calm. I hate how much I never knew.
Mom meets my gaze, and tears spill over her lashes.
“Because you were sick,” she whispers. “We needed help for your treatments. For your medication. For the specialist who believed he could save you. Your father had left us. I was working as a receptionist, barely making rent. Lina wanted to help, and Mario had money. He offered to pay for everything. And she . . . she agreed to marry him if that meant it’d save you. ”
My breath stumbles out of me, almost a sob. “When Mario died?”
“Mila had just been born,” she answers, wiping beneath her eyes. “We didn’t want to overwhelm you. And then Sam died and . . .” Her voice breaks. She presses her fingers to her lips.
“And here we are,” I whisper, my own tears falling before I can stop them.
Mom nods. “Exactly.”
Silence stretches between us.
I lower myself into the chair beside her. She watches me as though she’s waiting for me to push her away again. That realization knocks something loose inside me.
“You carried all of this alone,” I say softly.
“You tried to protect me and you hurt me at the same time.” My tears blur her face, turning her into something softer, younger, almost frightened.
“I’m angry. But I’m also—” My voice collapses.
“I’m also terrified. Because everything I believed about myself .
. . about my life . . . shifted overnight. ”
Mom reaches out slowly, as if afraid I’ll recoil. “Mara,” she whispers, voice splintering, “I have made mistakes. Big ones. But every single thing I did . . . I did because I loved you. Because you were my baby and I couldn’t lose you.”
That undoes me. I cover my face with my hands as the tears come harder. She moves closer, placing a hand on my back. She doesn’t say anything else—just sits with me, trembling with her own grief.
“She loved you so much,” she says. “We kind of shared you, but she couldn’t say anything.”
“I hate this,” I breathe out. “I hate the lies. I hate the confusion. I hate that I feel lost in my own life.”
“I know,” she whispers. “And I’m so sorry you had to find this way—after she died.”
“Mom,” I say after a long moment, wiping my eyes with my sleeve. “I don’t know how to forgive everything yet.”
“You don’t have to,” she replies quietly. “Not today. Not soon. Just let me sit with you while you figure it out. That’s all I’m asking.”
“I can do that,” I agree. “She left you a trust by the way.”
She waves a hand. “I don’t need her money. I just wish she had told me how bad things were before it was too late.”
“It was a—”
“She had a heart condition,” Mom says. “It should be in one of the letters she left you.”
“I haven’t read them.”
“You should.”
“I will when I’m ready.”
. . . But ready should probably be now.