Chapter 18 Moira Sullivan #2
Her face flickers—confusion first, then hurt, like I’ve hit a bruise I didn’t see.
“That’s not what I’m doing. I just, I don’t want to pry and make things worse.”
She stops, breathes, tries again.
“I don’t even know how to be a mother anymore.”
The words land too hard because I remember when she did. When she was bright and loud and warm. When Scott hadn’t hollowed her out piece by piece.
I still see her sometimes—the old version of her—in flashes, like sunlight reflecting off a broken mirror.
I’m about to tell her she’s doing fine, that we’re figuring it out together, when a black Mercedes rolls up beside the market like it’s here to collect a body.
I know that car and I know the dread that comes with it.
Moira Sullivan steps out, all precision and polished edges, and the air shifts. Mom goes rigid beside me, hand still hovering over the apricots.
Just my grandmother saying, “Lydia”—and Mom folds inward like she’s bracing for impact. Moira glides toward us wearing that smile she reserves for people she’d prefer to bury alive.
“I thought that was you.”
She leans in like she’s about to greet royalty, gives Mom an air-kiss that doesn’t come anywhere near actual skin.
“My God, Lydia. Divorce looks taxing. It’s a tragedy really.” She murmurs, voice dipped in honey and poison.
I watch Mom fold in on herself—not dramatically, just enough. Her hand lifts to her hair, smoothing it down. Her shoulders pull back, spine straightening, and I’m hit with a memory so clear it almost stings.
Moira’s voice, sharp as a ruler against knuckles: “Posture, Lydia. Slouching is a sign of weak character.”
She used to say it for everything.
When Mom was tired.
When she was pregnant with Jake.
When she was crying.
Mom’s body still responds to it like a command.
Years of conditioning, triggered in a single breath. Something in me catches fire. The kind of rage that doesn’t shout; it just settles deep in the bones and waits.
“Moira, hello,” Mom manages, but even that sounds like surrender.
Moira’s gaze sweeps over me next.
“Nathaniel. Tell me—how’s that educational experiment going? Community college? Or have we accepted our limitations by now?”
Breathe.
Just fucking breathe.
“You know grandmother, some people mellow with age,” I say, giving her a polite smile that’s anything but. “You’re not one of them. Nice to see you’re consistent, though.”
Her eyes narrow, finding new ways to assess me, categorize me, diminish me. But instead she turns back to Mom, her tone turning viciously delicate.
“He always was your son. And you Lydia, the embarrassment you’ve caused this family with your public unraveling—honestly, I don’t know how I’m meant to show my face here. The humiliation—”
“Enough,” I say before Mom can absorb the hit. I step forward—not aggressive, just there. “You need to back off.”
Moira blinks, surprised. Not used to being interrupted.
“You will not speak to me like—”
“Like what huh? Like someone not afraid to finally call you out on the decades of rot you pretended was parenting?”
My voice doesn’t rise; it just hardens. “That son of yours was the only tragedy. And even then, he was just a fucking blueprint. Yours.”
Mom swallows, but she stays where she is. Brave, or just tired.
“Your father is—”
“A monster,” I finish, voice flat as a blade. “And you can save the revisionism for someone stupid enough to buy it. I’m not your audience and neither is she.” I say pointing at Mom who looks shaken.
“Nate…” Mom whispers but she doesn’t reach for me. She knows better than to touch a live wire.
But I’ve fucking had it.
I held my mother while she cried in rooms that felt too small to hold that kind of pain. I’ve watched her rebuild herself from rubble she didn’t make.
And I’m done letting anyone—especially Moira fucking Sullivan—undo that.
Moira’s composure fractures for the first time.
The rage beneath the surface shows, ugly and real. Her hands shake as she adjusts her hair, her jewelry, her mask but doesn’t say another word. Just spins on her heel and gets in the Mercedes, slamming the door harder than she means to.
The car glides away like she’s fleeing the scene of her own crime. Silence settles heavy around us and Mom finally exhales—too slow, too tired.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, though I don’t know what she thinks she needs to apologize for.
“I’m not,” I say.
Not one fucking bit.
She huffs a small, startled laugh. The kind that sounds like it hurts.
We start walking back to the car, apricots rustling in the bag. But even with distance between us and Moira, I can see Mom folding inward again, carrying twenty years of someone else’s cruelty on shoulders that should’ve been held, not weighed down.
“Mom,” I say quietly, stopping her. “You know everything she says is a lie, right?”
Her eyes meet mine—empty in a way that guts me. Carved out and tired yet still fighting ghosts that shouldn’t be hers to battle.
She nods, voice small. “I love you, my sweet boy.”
Standing there I realize something sharp and painful: Mom and I we’ve been surviving each other’s grief for years. But as she straightens beside me, trying to reclaim whatever pieces Moira shook loose, I feel something settle in my chest—heavy, definite.
I’m done letting the Sullivans define who we are or what we deserve.
Done letting them pretend their cruelty is tradition.
Done letting them waltz back into our lives and try to ruin what little we’ve managed to rebuild.
If they want a war, they can have one because we’re not the same people we were years ago.
We’re stronger now.
And I’m not letting them take another piece of her.