Chapter 9 – Ellie
The message sits there on my screen, glowing in the dark like it’s holding its breath with me.
Me: Hi Mom… can we talk?
I stare at it for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the phone like I might take it back, like I might pretend I never sent it. My heart thuds against my ribs, too loud in the quiet of my room. The air feels thick, heavy, like the moment before a storm breaks.
But it’s too late.
It’s out there now — floating between us, small and fragile and hopeful.
The screen stays still.
No typing bubble.
No reply.
I swallow hard and lie back against my pillow, staring at the ceiling as if the answer might appear there instead. I didn’t expect her to answer right away. I didn’t expect anything, really. I just… needed to try. Needed to stop running from the ache that’s been living in my chest for months.
For a moment, I close my eyes and breathe.
Slow.
Careful.
Like I’m afraid the whole world might crack if I move too fast.
My room feels different tonight — quieter, darker, like it’s holding its own breath too. The faint hum of the AC, the soft rustle of my blanket, the distant sound of a car passing outside… everything feels muted, waiting.
Then my phone buzzes softly in my hand.
I flinch.
Mom: Of course, sweetheart. I’m here.
Are you okay?
The breath leaves my lungs all at once — not in a dramatic way, just in that quiet, shaky way that happens when something inside you loosens after being tight for too long. My eyes sting instantly.
Another message appears before I can even process the first.
Mom: I’ve missed you.
I’ve been giving you space, but… I’m here. Whenever you’re ready.
Her words are soft. Careful. Like she’s afraid to push too hard. Like she’s holding her hands out, palms up, waiting to see if I’ll take them.
And for the first time in months, I want to.
Me: I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry for pushing you away .
Me : I miss you more. I need you.
The reply comes almost instantly.
Mom: I need you too, my love.
My chest tightens — not painfully, but in that overwhelming way that happens when something inside you finally cracks open. Tears blur my vision, warm and sudden, spilling before I can stop them.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand and type again, my vision blurring.
Me: I want to fix things with you, Mom. I want to have a relationship with you.
As I hit send, something in me releases — a pressure I didn’t realize I’d been holding for so long. Relief floods my chest, warm and heavy, and I let out a sound I didn’t know I’d been holding in — half sob, half sigh.
My phone buzzes again.
Mom: I do too, honey.
Another breath leaves me, shaky and soft. My heart feels like it’s trying to relearn how to beat.
Me: Can we move on from our past, and let our present be good for both of us?
There’s a pause — not long, but long enough for my heart to thud once, twice, three times. I stare at the screen, barely breathing.
Then:
Mom: Of course.
Just that.
Simple.
Steady.
Certain.
And somehow, those two words feel like a door opening — one I didn’t think we’d ever find again. A door I thought had rusted shut forever.
All I can say to the universe is… thank you.
I stare at the screen, tears slipping down my cheeks, and before I can type anything else, my phone starts to ring.
It’s her.
For a second, I freeze. My heart jumps into my throat. My fingers shake. I stare at her name on the screen like it’s something holy and terrifying.
Then I swipe to answer.
“Hi, sweetheart,” she says, her voice soft and warm and a little shaky, like she’s been holding her breath for months too.
And just like that… everything inside me breaks open.
We talk.
God, we talk.
About us.
About the past.
About the things we didn’t say and the things we should have.
About how much we’ve missed each other.
About how we both want to do better — not perfectly, just honestly.
Her voice wraps around me like a blanket I didn’t realize I’d been cold without. Every word feels like stitching — small, careful, mending something I thought was too torn to fix.
Minutes turn into an hour.
An hour turns into two.
At some point, I curl under my blankets, phone pressed to my ear, tears drying on my cheeks. The room feels warmer now. Softer. Like the air itself is different.
She tells me she’s proud of me.
She tells me she loves me.
She tells me she’s sorry too.
And I believe her.
For the first time in a long time, I believe her.
By the time we say goodnight, something in me feels… whole.
Not fixed.
Not perfect.
Just… complete in a way I didn’t think I could feel again.
I hang up, stare at the ceiling, and let the quiet settle around me. I hang up, stare at the ceiling, and let the quiet settle around me. But it’s not the heavy quiet from before. It’s gentle. Peaceful. Like the world finally exhaled with me.
For the first time in a long time, I feel good.
I feel hopeful.
I feel healed.
And as I close my eyes, I realize something simple and true:
Tonight, I got my mom back.
And maybe… I got a piece of myself back too.