Chapter 2 #2
“There you are,” she said. “I’ve been waiting to talk to you.”
My stomach tightened. “About what?”
She folded her hands, the picture of calm control. “I spoke with the headmistress from St. Agatha’s this morning.”
“Mom—”
“She’s willing to make an exception,” my mother continued smoothly, as if I hadn’t spoken. “They’re prepared to admit Ava starting Monday. I told her you’d be thrilled.”
I blinked at her, sure I’d misheard. “You what?”
“I used to play tennis with her husband,” she said, like that explained everything. “All it took was a few calls.”
“Mom, you can’t—” I felt my voice rise and fought to keep it steady. “You don’t get to make that decision. I told you, the public school is a better fit.”
Her smile didn’t crack, but her tone sharpened. “Better fit? Eleanor, really. That place is chaos. The children are—”
“Happy,” I cut in. “They were happy. And the staff actually understood Ava’s needs.”
My mother’s eyes flashed, all softness gone. “Needs or excuses? You’ve let her hide behind them for too long. She needs discipline, not coddling.”
The words hit like a slap, even though I’d expected them.
I drew a slow breath, every muscle in my body screaming to keep my voice level. “You think she’s hiding? She’s surviving, Mom. She lost her dad. She’s autistic. She’s doing her best every single day.”
My mother’s jaw tightened. “So are you, dear, and look where it’s gotten you.”
For a second, the kitchen blurred. I gripped the back of a chair just to stay anchored.
“I’m done, Mom,” I said quietly. “You don’t get to bulldoze me into your version of ‘best’ anymore.”
Her eyes widened, the faintest flicker of surprise breaking through her composure. “Eleanor—”
But I didn’t stay to hear the rest.
I walked out of the kitchen before she could recover, climbed the stairs two at a time, and shut myself into the bedroom.
The second the door clicked shut, I pressed my back against it and exhaled hard. My hands were shaking. My pulse felt too loud in my ears. I wanted to scream, to cry, to sleep for a week, anything to stop the exhaustion that had settled into my bones and refused to leave.
I swallowed it down. Like I always did.
But when I turned toward the bathroom, I froze.
Belle was on her knees by the tub, rubber gloves on, scrubbing tile like she was waging war on mildew. She looked up, startled, with a streak of suds across her cheek.
“Oh,” she said, blinking. “Didn’t realize you were home yet.”
I tried for composure and failed. My voice came out brittle. “Sorry. I just needed—”
“Privacy?” she said gently, pulling off one glove. “You look like you could use it. Or a stiff drink.”
That almost made me laugh, the kind that breaks on the way out. “My mother just enrolled my kid in a school I told her not to.”
Belle sat back on her heels, eyebrows lifting. “She what?”
“St. Agatha’s. She called the headmistress. Pulled strings. Acted like I should be grateful.”
“Wow.” Belle whistled softly. “She doesn’t do subtle, does she?”
I shook my head, a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh escaping before I could stop it. “I just . . . I’m so tired. I’m trying to hold it together, to be the good daughter and the good mom, and I keep feeling like I’m failing both.”
Belle stood, peeled off her other glove, and crossed the room. She didn’t reach for me right away, just stood beside me, close enough that her presence felt like solid ground.
“You’re not failing,” she said finally. “You’re just doing it alone.”
I blinked hard, but the tears still came, slow and hot and impossible to stop.
Belle handed me a roll of paper towels from the counter. “Sorry, I don’t have tissues.”
That made me laugh for real, even through the tears. “Paper towels work.”
She leaned against the counter, watching me with that steady, unflinching gaze that made it impossible to hide. “You know,” she said after a beat, “If you don’t have plans, you should come to the next roller derby bout. You look like someone who needs a place to scream without apologizing for it.”
I sniffed, managing a weak smile. “Do people really scream at those things?”
“Constantly,” she said. “And sometimes we hit people, too.”
That earned a watery laugh. “Tempting.”
Belle grinned. “Then come. No pressure. Just . . . come see what it’s like.”
I nodded, wiping at my cheeks. “Okay.”
When she was gone, I stood there alone, surrounded by the faint smell of bleach and the sound of my heartbeat finally slowing down.
Maybe she was right. Maybe I did.
Dinner was quiet that night. Too quiet.
The clinking of silverware on china filled the spaces where conversation should have lived. My mother asked about the school visit once, in the clipped tone of someone pretending to make small talk, and I answered in the shortest possible syllables.
Ava kept her eyes on her plate, eating mechanically, the way she did when the air felt heavy. Even Belle’s chicken and roasted carrots couldn’t thaw the tension.
When the meal was over, my mother stacked her napkin perfectly on the table and smiled like nothing was wrong.
By the time I’d showered and crawled under the covers, exhaustion had turned into a physical ache. I turned off the lamp and stared at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the house settling.
The door creaked open a few minutes later.
Ava padded across the room, her pajamas soft and mismatched, hair mussed from sleep she hadn’t quite found yet. Without a word, she climbed into bed beside me, curling up close the way she had every night since Ethan died.
I smoothed her hair back from her face. “Couldn’t sleep?”
She shook her head, voice small and careful. “Is Grandma mad at me?”
My throat tightened instantly. “Oh, baby. No.”
“She looked mad.”
“She just doesn’t understand,” I said gently. “And sometimes when grown-ups don’t understand something, they get frustrated. But none of this is your fault, okay? Not one single thing.”
Ava was quiet for a long moment, tracing the pattern on the quilt with her finger. “I like it there better than the fancy school,” she whispered.
A laugh caught in my throat, breaking on its way out. “Yeah,” I said softly. “I liked it better, too.”
Her hand found mine under the blanket. Small. Warm. Real.
“I love you, Mom,” she murmured, already half-asleep.
“I love you too, sweetheart.”
I lay awake long after her breathing evened out, staring into the dark.
My mother thought Ava needed fixing.
But all I wanted was to build a world where she didn’t.
The first day of school started like every parent’s Instagram post, complete with a new backpack, a halfhearted smile, and a forced optimism that didn’t quite stick.
Ava stood by the van, hood up, holding her lunchbox like a shield. I crouched to fix her new headphones, the ones she’d picked because the ear cups glowed green. “You’ve got your pencils, your sketchbook, and your snacks, right?”
She nodded without looking up. “Do I have to go?”
My throat tightened, but I forced a smile. “Just try, okay? Remember, Ms. Leighton said she’d save you the window seat.”
Her gaze flicked toward the school doors. “There’s too many people.”
“I know,” I said softly. “But you can handle this. One step at a time.”
She didn’t look convinced, but she let me hug her before she slipped inside with the slow reluctance of someone walking into a thunderstorm.
I waited in the parking lot longer than I should’ve, watching other parents wave and drive away like it was the easiest thing in the world. Eventually, I made myself leave.
Two hours later, my phone rang.
By the time I got to the school office, I was asked to come in. When I got there, the secretary, Darlene, with her purple streak still bright as ever, gave me a sympathetic smile. “Rough morning,” she said. “She’s in the restroom. Ms. Leighton’s with her, but she asked for you.”
My stomach dropped. “Is she okay?”
“Just overwhelmed,” Darlene said gently. “Big day. Big crowd. She’ll be fine.”
When I reached the bathroom, Ms. Leighton stood outside the stall, crouched down so her voice would carry without cornering. “Hey, no rush, okay? We’re not going anywhere.”
I took a slow breath and tapped lightly on the door. “It’s me, baby.”
A muffled sniffle came from the other side. “They laughed at my headphones.”
My heart broke clean in two. “Oh, honey.” I pressed my hand to the door. “Kids can be mean sometimes. But that doesn’t make you wrong for being who you are.”
“I want to go home.”
“I know,” I said, voice soft. “But how about we just try for a little longer? You’ve got your headphones, your cool-down tent, Ms. Leighton, and me on speed dial. That’s your team, right?”
There was a long silence, then a quiet, “Okay.”
A few minutes later, the door creaked open. Her face was blotchy, her eyes puffy, but she stood up straight.
Ms. Leighton smiled like she’d just watched someone climb a mountain. “There’s my artist. You know what? The class is making name tags. Want to design yours?”
Ava hesitated, then gave a tiny nod.
As they walked back to class, I felt Ms. Leighton glance back at me, the kind of look that said we’ve got her.
Darlene met me in the hallway on my way out, offering a cup of lukewarm coffee and a kind smile. “Rough starts happen,” she said. “Doesn’t mean it won’t get better.”
“I hope so,” I said, wrapping both hands around the cup like it might hold the answer.
“Trust me,” she said. “It always does.”
I wasn’t sure if I believed her. But as I stepped outside into the sunlight, I realized that for the first time in a long while, hope didn’t feel impossible. Just . . . fragile.
And that was enough for now.
Dinner that night was every bit as uncomfortable as I’d expected.
My mother sat at the head of the table, posture perfect, napkin folded just so. She waited until Belle set down the roast before speaking, her tone deceptively casual.
“So,” she said, slicing her portion with surgical precision. “How was the public school?”
I kept my voice even. “It went well.”
“Well?” she repeated, one eyebrow lifting like a seesaw. “I find that hard to believe.”
“It was welcoming,” I said carefully. “The staff was great, and Ava seemed comfortable.”
My mother gave a polite laugh that didn’t reach her eyes. “Comfortable isn’t the same as prepared, Eleanor. Those schools—well, I’m sure they do their best with the limited resources they have.”
I stabbed at my lettuce a little too hard.
Her expression didn’t change, but the temperature in the room dropped five degrees. “If you’d let St. Agatha’s—”
“Mom,” I said sharply. “Please. Not tonight.”
She sniffed, cutting another perfect bite. “I only want what’s best for her.”
“So do I,” I whispered.
For the rest of the meal, the only sounds were the clinking of silverware. Ava ate quickly and quietly, eyes fixed on her plate, then excused herself without prompting.
When the last dish was washed, and the house had gone still, I stood by the kitchen window, watching the porch light spill over the garden.
Belle had gone home. My mother was in her sitting room, no doubt polishing her righteousness with a glass of pinot. Upstairs, Ava hummed faintly through her headphones, the sound thin but steady.
I pressed my palms against the counter, trying to breathe past the weight in my chest.
I couldn’t do this forever.
I couldn’t keep coming home to a house that wasn’t mine, living under rules that didn’t fit, walking the line between gratitude and resentment.
We needed our own space, somewhere small, messy, ours.
But every time I opened my banking app, the numbers glared back, cold and unforgiving. Even the cheapest apartments in Briar Glen were out of reach.
Still, I couldn’t stop imagining it, a place with chipped paint and secondhand furniture, a lock that was mine, a bedroom where Ava could hang her spooky drawings without anyone sighing about “appropriate decor.”
A home built out of chaos and love instead of control and silence.
I didn’t know how I’d make it happen.
But as I turned off the kitchen light and climbed the stairs, one truth hummed steady beneath my ribs. I had to find a way.