Chapter 3
The tea has gone lukewarm by the time Mom finally starts talking about work at the diner.
“Mrs. Davis ordered the same slice of pie again today,” she says, her voice carefully even. “She always pretends she can’t decide, but it’s always the apple. I think she enjoys imagining ordering something different.”
We switch to her native tongue when we’re alone like this.
She says it’s important to remember one’s culture, though that’s all she’ll ever give me.
Whenever I press her for more, she merely shrugs and calls it a dead language—no one else can speak it, no one can read it, except us.
She was insistent that I learn, despite the sadness in her eyes when she said it was too painful to explain.
So I grew up with those odd, swirling patterns—spoken on her tongue, traced on papers for me to learn and read. I’ve searched through every book I could find, in every town we’ve lived, and I’ve discovered nothing close to it. Perhaps she’s right, and it truly is dead.
I nod, twirling my fork through pasta I’m not starving for. “You’re always so nice to her.”
“She’s lonely,” Mom says, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “And she reminds me of Ms. Kosikas. She notices things.”
Across the hall, she means. Her elderly neighbor, Ms. Kosikas, sometimes shuffles feebly down the hallway with her cane, yet sometimes carries her garbage out with more ease than her years suggest. I’ve never been able to figure her out.
Neither has Mom, I assume, though they look out for each other in quiet ways.
My phone buzzes against the table. I ignore it.
Another buzz, then another, lights up the screen with Abi’s name.
No doubt she and Trevor are halfway into their second round of drinks, sending me running commentary.
I could’ve been with them. Or curled up in bed with a book, lost in someone else’s story.
Instead, I’m here, picking through overcooked pasta while pretending small talk isn’t suffocating me.
Mom refills her mug, her hands steady but her eyes restless. She asks about upcoming classes, nods at my answers, and mentions the cold. The words fill the space, but none of them matter. Not really.
I finally glance at my phone. Selfies of my friends attempting to lure me out to join them.
Abi: We’re ordering shots. You’re missing it.
I smirk, flipping the screen facedown. At least someone’s night is going according to plan. A few minutes later, another buzz.
Abi: It’s not too late. Hop on the train and meet us!
My fork scrapes the bowl. If I’d known tonight was going to be this, I might have. Instead, I tell myself the pasta will fuel my long run tomorrow—another buzz.
Abi: Mason just walked in.
Great. Exactly who I wouldn’t want to run into at midnight, surrounded by alcohol and friends egging me on.
Honestly, I could be at home right now, curled up with a book, instead of sitting here counting bites of pasta and waiting for Mom to pull out yet another university brochure and pitch a transfer before the new semester even starts.
The phone lights up again almost immediately.
Abi: I know you’d never confirm it, but he gives off total small-dick vibes.
I smother a laugh with a cough and set the phone aside.
When I look back up, Mom is twisting her fingers together, the black swirling pattern down her left ring finger flaring out across her knuckles, shifting with each nervous twist. The light catches another mark too—the delicate interlocking tattoo on her wrist, as familiar to me as her face.
Both have been there as long as I can remember.
I’ve always assumed they came from some rebellious stage of her youth, though she’d never talk about it if I asked.
She swallows, her eyes flicking up to meet mine. Then she takes a deep breath, folding both hands around her mug as if bracing herself.
“I’m glad you came tonight,” she says, her gaze finally steady on mine. “There’s something I need to tell you. Something important.”
She hesitates, then adds, “But before I say anything, you need to know I’ve wanted to tell you for years. I was only trying to protect you, to give you some sense of normalcy. And, gods, I figured there was no way you would believe me.”
Normalcy. The word snags like a burr under my skin, sharp and wrong. My childhood had been a lot of things, but normal wasn’t one of them. I don’t say that out loud, not yet, but the thought prickles hot at the back of my throat.
I bounce my leg under the table, the jittery motion making the chair creak. Suddenly, the air in the kitchen feels too close, too heavy, and I wish I could crank open one of those stubborn old windows just to let in a breath of night air.
My phone buzzes again, skittering against the table.
Probably Abi, still narrating the night I’m not having.
I don’t dare look. The pasta sits in my stomach like a stone; every bite I’ve forced down is swelling heavier now.
I reach for my glass of water, desperate for a sip, but the bottom is bare.
I’ve already drained it without noticing.
Mom’s fingers twist tighter, like she can wring the words out of her hands if she just tries hard enough.
“There are some things you need to know. About who I am. Where I’m from.
About your father.” Her voice wavers. “It’s going to be a lot, and I don’t even know where to start, so…
” She glances at her wrist. “I suppose I’ll start with your tattoo. ”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
She pulls her sleeve back, revealing the small interlocking mark on the inside of her wrist. “Your tattoo. Exactly like this one.”
I let out a startled laugh. “I don’t have any tattoos.” My pulse skitters. Is she serious? Is she… delusional?
Her eyes soften, but her voice is firm. “Yes, you wouldn’t know about it. But you have one. And I need to start there, because tomorrow, when you turn twenty-one, you’re going to feel it. You’ll realize I’m telling the truth.”
My stomach lurches. “I don’t—where is this supposed tattoo?”
She hesitates, then says quietly, “I had to put it somewhere no one would notice. It’s on the back of your neck, just above the hairline, hidden under your hair, of course.”
Heat surges up my chest. “How long has it been there?”
“Since you were born.”
I shoot to my feet, my chair screeching back, the contents of her mug sloshing over the table.
The room tilts, a sudden lurch that makes my stomach drop.
For a heartbeat, I sway, as if gravity itself has shifted under me.
I clutch the edge of the table, blaming it on standing up too fast, though my pulse screams in my ears.
“You put a fucking tattoo on me as a baby?”
“Yes, but you don’t understand. It was essential—”
“Essential?” The word rips out of me, jagged. The air feels too hot, too thick. A voice in my head is hissing, “Breathe, calm down, stop before you say something you’ll regret,”—but it is no use. The tide has already broken, and I’ve held it all back for far too long.
“Essential would have been giving me a stable home. Allowing me to stay at the same school long enough to have actual friends, instead of dragging me around the world and forcing me to start over every time I got settled. Essential would have been letting me know SOMETHING about you, our family, my dad.”
“Metra, your father—”
“Essential would have been my going to prom. Or middle school dances. Or being invited to somebody’s birthday party without everyone staring at me like I was some stray who didn’t belong. Essential.”
My voice is too loud. I know the neighbors can hear, probably half the building can, actually, but I can’t stop.
My throat burns, my hands shake, and still the words tear out of me.
In my periphery, the orange glow of the streetlight outside the kitchen window flickers against the glass, a pocket of quiet, of normal, just beyond these walls.
Out there, it looks calm, almost peaceful.
In here, the storm rages, all of it pouring out of me at once, years of silence and sacrifice detonating in a single breathless eruption.
Mom’s mouth opens like she wants to explain, but nothing comes out. The conversation has spun out of her hands, but she only sits there, stricken, while I unravel.
“Do you deny it?” I spit.
Her eyes widen. “No. Of course I don’t.”
“Exactly.” My pulse thunders in my ears. “We’ve always been running from something, haven’t we? But you never clued me in on what it was.”
My mother’s voice softens. “Metra, I admit there are things I should have told you long ago. I’ve just been trying to keep us safe—”
I throw up my hands. “Oh, here we go again.” The words taste bitter, but they come too fast to stop.
“Do you even realize this is what it’s always like with you?
As soon as I start to feel comfortable somewhere, as soon as I start to live, suddenly you’re nervous, anxious, packing boxes.
You won’t ever tell me why. You’ll never answer my questions. Just shadows and warnings and run.”
“Metra—”
“No.” My voice cracks, but the anger in me won’t stop. “A long time ago, I decided this wasn’t about me. This was your problem. Something that’s broken in you. Because what kind of mother can’t stand to see her daughter happy? What kind of mother won’t even let her breathe?”
Her eyes shine, stricken. “All I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy and have a chance to live.”
“Don’t.” My throat is tight, but I push the words out anyway.
“If you wanted that, you would’ve realized years ago how hard it was to pack up, start over, again and again—always because of some feeling you had.
No explanation, no reason I could ever understand.
Do you know how many times I was finally starting to belong somewhere when you ripped it all away? ”
Her hands tremble. “I was trying to protect you—”