Chapter 26 Harper
HARPER
The first snowflake hit my windshield like a warning I should have heeded.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hey, sweetheart.”
I could tell by that one word through my hands-free speaker that she was at least half a bottle of vodka deep.
The syllables stretched too long, softened at the edges like butter left out overnight.
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel as another gust of wind shoved my Honda toward the shoulder.
“Wanted to call and see how you’re doing,” she said.
Some days, I told myself she was doing the best she could. That I should focus on the positive. She had called me, which meant she was thinking about me. Caring about me. Which meant that somewhere, buried beneath the vodka and the excuses and the decades of disappointment, she loved me.
Other days, I reminded myself she probably wouldn’t remember this conversation by tomorrow. That she hadn’t thought to call me before the half bottle. That the vodka had taken priority.
It always took priority.
I shook my head, hating myself for the thought. My mother had a disease. Villainizing her for it made me a terrible daughter.
But maybe it was only human for pain to shapeshift. Some days, it showed up as sadness. Others, resentment. Today, it felt like exhaustion, bone-deep and heavy, settling into my chest like the snow now blanketing the road ahead.
I took a breath and made a choice. Today, I would be grateful. My mom had taken time out of her day to check on me. That counted for something.
It had to.
“I’m really good, Mom.” I flicked on my wipers, watching them drag through the slush. “How are you?”
“Really? Because …” She hesitated. “I’m worried about you.”
My stomach tightened. “Why?”
“I talked to Silas.”
The name hit me like a patch of black ice. My foot jerked off the gas, and the car fishtailed slightly before I corrected.
Easy. Breathe.
“What?”
“Don’t get mad.”
Too late. “Why did you talk to Silas?”
“He’s worried about you, honey.”
I let out a laugh that tasted bitter. So worried about me that he’d called my alcoholic mother to manipulate her into doing his dirty work. Get her riled up, get her to call me, get me to call him back.
Because I’d changed my number and blocked his.
Because somehow—probably thanks to his security buddies that knew how to run background checks—he’d found where I worked. And chances were, Silas also now had my home address too.
The windshield wipers slapped a frantic rhythm. Snow was falling faster now, thick flakes that dissolved into streaks the moment they touched glass. I leaned forward, squinting at the road. The visibility was terrible, the kind of conditions that made you white-knuckle the wheel and pray.
Kind of like this conversation.
“Mom”—I kept my voice steady, even as my thumb found the inside of my palm, nail pressing into skin—“with all due respect, I’m not talking about Silas. I was going to call and tell you, but I haven’t gotten around to it. Our relationship is over.”
“But he said—”
“I need you to hear me.” I cut her off, something I rarely did. “Him calling you, trying to get you worked up? That’s not concern. That’s manipulation. If you love me, if you trust me at all, you need to believe me. And if he calls again, do not answer. Okay?”
Silence. Then: “He said you’ve been acting erratic.”
For fuck’s sake.
Did she not hear a single word I just said? Irritation ground against my bones, hot and sharp.
“Of course that’s what he’s going to say, Mom.
” I couldn’t keep the edge out of my voice anymore.
“The relationship is over. He can’t possibly look in the mirror and admit he did something wrong.
So, he’s spinning a story where I’m the crazy one.
” I sucked in a breath through my teeth.
“Can we please change the subject? He’s not a good guy. ”
“He’s always been so kind to us.”
And there it was. The heartbeat of how my mother evaluated every relationship, every friendship. Through the years, people in my life had fallen into two buckets: those who thought my parents were disasters I should flee and those who had empathy.
Mom could always sniff out which category someone fell into. It was in the undertone of every question she asked about my friends, my boyfriends, my life. And deep down, I knew it was rooted in paranoia.
I liked to believe my mother knew she was failing me. I also liked to believe she was terrified I’d cut ties completely.
As awful as that was to admit, it meant she cared about having me in her life. It was one of the only pieces of evidence I had that she loved me.
But with that came deep insecurity about her failures. She looked to the people in my life as judge, jury, and executioner. If enough of them convinced me she was bad news, that was bad news for her.
When Silas entered the picture, he swooped in like a savior. Encouraged me to work things out with my parents. Told me family was everything. Played the role of supportive boyfriend so well, I never saw the trap closing around me.
At first at least.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that in hindsight, that was pure manipulation. A calculated move to look like the good guy. Or that months later, he’d called my parents every name in the book and demanded I never speak to them again.
Now, in his desperate bid to get me back, he was dusting off the savior costume.
The truth was, I didn’t know what kind of future I had with my parents. Many people could argue I should just cut ties with them, but they were the only family I had, and as flawed and imperfect as they were, they had raised me. They had given me life.
And I wanted so badly for them to have one too.
A real one. A sober one.
Lately, that want had sharpened into something closer to need. After everything with Silas, after fleeing across state lines with nothing but a prayer, I craved something solid to stand on. Something that wouldn’t shift beneath my feet.
I needed my parents.
Not the versions that existed now, pickled and hazy, but the ones I remembered in flashes.
Mom braiding my hair before school. Dad teaching me to ride a bike in the driveway, his hands steady on the handlebars.
Those parents had existed once. Somewhere beneath the vodka and the pills and the years of slow erosion, they were still in there.
They had to be.
I thought about Knox. About the way his entire face changed when he talked about his daughter. Fourteen years in prison, and he still fought for her. Still protected her. Still put her first, even when it cost him everything.
That was what parents were supposed to do.
They were supposed to choose you.
“You know, Mom …” I forced my voice softer. “I’ve been doing some research. There’s a really good rehab near my new job. You and Dad could both get clean. Start fresh.”
The snow came down harder. I could barely see ten feet ahead, the world reduced to white static and the ghostly glow of my headlights. My shoulders crept toward my ears, muscles coiling tight.
“Honey, we can’t afford that.”
My eyes burned. “I’ll find a way.”
I would work double shifts. Triple shifts. I would sell everything I owned if it meant getting them back.
“I won’t let you do that for us.”
Anger flared, hot and sudden. This was what it was like, talking to my parents. An emotional roller coaster with no safety bar. Anger, then guilt, then sadness, then worry. Loop after loop after loop until I wanted to scream.
“Mom, I want you and Dad back.” My voice cracked on the last word. As much as I pretended starting a new life wasn’t scary as hell, as grateful as I was to have found Faith, I still felt lonely. I wanted my parents more than I had in recent years. “That’s worth more than any amount of money.”
I waited for her to say she wanted that too. That she’d try. That she’d fight for me the way Knox fought for his daughter.
“Honey, we’re fine. Truly.”
My throat swelled shut.
Fine.
They were always fine.
Meanwhile, I was the one drowning. I was the one who had just escaped a man who used his fists like punctuation marks. I was the one starting over in a new city, alone, terrified, desperate for something steady to hold on to.
And they couldn’t even admit they had a problem.
Knox had given up fourteen years of his life to protect his daughter. My parents couldn’t give up a bottle.
Back to denial. The ride was over. Nothing resolved, nothing changed.
“I have to go, Mom. I’m almost at work.”
“Okay, sweetheart. Be safe.”
I ended the call and exhaled, long and shaky, the silence in the car feeling louder than her voice had.
The prison emerged through the snow like a ghost, all concrete and razor wire, edges softened by the storm. I pulled into the parking lot and killed the engine, catching my reflection in the rearview mirror. Red-rimmed eyes. The unmistakable look of someone trying very hard to hold it together.
I’d see Knox again today.
And something told me he’d take one look at my face and know exactly what I was trying so hard to bury.