42. Victoria
VICTORIA
My mother’s house does not look different.
The gate still drags against the ground when I push it open. The left hinge gives that old rusty cry, the same one my mother has promised to fix for years but never does because, according to her, a noisy gate is better than a doorbell.
The rosebush beside the wall has grown wild. One branch leans across the path, heavy with pale flowers and thorns.
I lift Elsie over it before she can reach out.
“Careful,” I tell her.
She clutches her plastic toy to her chest and looks around with wide eyes.
“Is this Nana’s house?”
My throat tightens.
“Yes, baby.”
Olivia stands behind me with Mrs. Abena.
Both are quiet.
Olivia, who always has an opinion ready, says nothing while I stare at the front door.
For months, I dreamed of this.
My mother’s house.
My old street.
The smell of her cooking drifting through the hallway.
Her voice calling my name before I even knocked.
The familiar comfort of being someone’s daughter again instead of a woman carrying fear and a child in both arms.
I raise my hand.
Knock once.
Then twice.
Footsteps come from inside.
Slow.
I frown.
My mother usually moves quickly when she knows it’s me. She used to hurry even while pretending she had not been waiting. A quick shuffle. A muttered prayer. Then the door opening before I could knock again.
Today, the lock turns after a long pause.
The door opens.
My mother stands there.
For one second, my heart forgets every terrible thing that has happened.
“Mum.”
Her face changes, but not the way I expect.
Relief is there.
I see it.
But it comes late.
After surprise.
After fear.
After a brief glance over my shoulder toward the street.
Then she reaches for me.
“Victoria.”
Her arms close around me.
I hold her hard.
Her scent reaches me first. Then the softness of her cardigan beneath my fingers.
I close my eyes, and for one breath, I am seventeen again, crying over exam results and boys who never mattered.
Then her body stiffens.
Only for a moment.
But I feel it.
She pulls back and cups my face.
“You’re here.”
“I’m back.”
Her eyes move over me quickly.
My face.
My clothes.
My hair.
Then Elsie.
Elsie hides behind my skirt.
My mother’s mouth trembles.
“Elsie.”
“Nana,” Elsie says, shy and small.
My mother crouches, but she does not touch her right away.
“Look at you. You’ve grown.”
Elsie clings tighter to me.
I smile, though my chest feels wrong.
“She’s missed you.”
My mother nods.
“Come in. Come in before the neighbours start looking.”
The words stop me.
The neighbours?
I glance toward Olivia.
She hears it too.
My mother steps back and lets us inside.
The hallway looks unusually empty.
No music plays from the kitchen radio.
No pot simmers on the stove.
The house is neat.
Too neat.
Cushions arranged carefully. Surfaces cleared. The kind of order my mother only bothers with when guests are expected.
Or when she is trying not to think.
I set Elsie’s bag near the stairs.
Mrs. Abena greets my mother politely. My mother replies with kindness, but her attention keeps drifting toward the front window.
Olivia notices.
“I’ll take Elsie to the sitting room,” she says.
I give her a grateful look.
Elsie hesitates before following, but Olivia offers her a packet of biscuits from her bag, and that solves half the world’s problems.
Mrs. Abena goes with them.
That leaves me alone in the hallway with my mother.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then I laugh once because I do not know what else to do.
“I’m really here.”
“Yes,” she says. “You are.”
“I thought you’d be angrier.”
Her eyes come to mine.
“Angry?”
“For disappearing. For not calling properly. For everything.”
She looks down and smooths the front of her cardigan.
“I knew you had reasons.”
I stare at her.
That is not my mother.
My mother asks questions before I take off my coat. My mother worries loudly. My mother once called three lecturers because I did not answer my phone for two hours after work.
Now I have been gone through violence, fear, hiding, and silence.
And she says she knew I had reasons.
I take off my coat slowly.
“Mum, a lot happened.”
“I can see that.”
“No. You can’t.”
Her hand tightens on the cardigan.
I step closer.
“I need to tell you everything. Not all of it will sound normal.”
She gives a small nod, but comfort does not come with it.
I lower my voice.
“Lorenzo is Elsie’s father. Do you know the name?”
Her face does not change enough.
That is the second thing that hurts.
I expected shock.
A gasp.
A hand over her mouth.
A thousand questions.
Anger at me.
Anger at him.
Confusion.
Anything.
But my mother only closes her eyes for half a second.
“I see.”
I step back.
“You see?”
She opens her eyes.
“Victoria—”
“You already knew?”
“No.”
The answer comes too fast.
My stomach tightens.
“Mum.”
She looks toward the sitting room.
Elsie laughs at something Olivia says, the sound soft but clear through the half-open door.
My mother’s expression folds.
“Let’s sit.”
“No. Answer me.”
She presses her lips together.
The kettle clicks in the kitchen, though no one has touched it. The house hums with old pipes and quiet appliances.
Everything ordinary feels suddenly wrong.
“I didn’t know for certain,” she says.
“For certain?”
Her eyes fill, but the tears do not fall.
“I suspected.”
“When?”
“A while ago.”
I stare at her.
“How long is a while?”
She turns away and walks into the kitchen.
I follow.
The kitchen is spotless.
No mug in the sink.
No shopping list pinned to the fridge.
Even the little ceramic bowl where she keeps keys is empty.
She fills the kettle again, though it has already boiled.
Her hands shake.
I see it.
“Mum.”
“I don’t want to say the wrong thing.”
“You’re scaring me.”
That makes her stop.
Her shoulders rise and fall once.
“I’m sorry.”
I wait.
Her fingers grip the edge of the counter.
“Not here.”
My skin chills.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I don’t want to discuss this in the kitchen while Elsie is in the next room.”
“You think someone is listening?”
“No.”
Again, too fast.
I look around the kitchen.
The window above the sink.
The back door.
The old clock.
The radio on the shelf.
My mother follows my gaze.
Her face pales.
A slow sickness moves through me.
“Mum, what happened while I was gone?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
That almost makes me laugh.
Not because it is funny.
Because it is exactly what someone says after everything has gone wrong.
I step closer.
“Francesco tried to force me into marriage. He lied to me. He cheated. He nearly got us killed.”
My mother closes her eyes.
I keep going because once the words start, I cannot hold them back.
“I ran. Olivia ran with me. Mrs. Abena almost died. Lorenzo found us. Then Francesco came after him too. There were men with guns, Mum. Real guns. I heard bullets. Elsie heard them.”
My voice breaks.
My mother’s face crumples.
She reaches for me, then stops before touching me.
That hesitation cuts deeper than I expect.
“Victoria,” she whispers.
“I wanted to come home. I wanted to call you every day. I wanted my mother.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
My eyes burn.
“Because you’re standing there looking scared of me.”
Her head lifts.
“Not of you.”
“Then of who?”
She looks toward the sitting room again.
I turn.
Olivia sits on the floor with Elsie, helping her line up toy animals on the rug. Mrs. Abena rests in the armchair, watching them with a tired smile.
My mother lowers her voice.
“You shouldn’t have come without warning.”
The words land cold.
I stare at her.
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I didn’t mean?—”
“You didn’t expect me to come home?”
“I didn’t know when it would be safe.”
Safe.
The word sits between us.
My fingers curl against my palm.
“Who told you to say that?”
She does not answer.
My heartbeat begins to pound in my ears.
“Was it Francesco?”
Her face gives me the answer before her mouth does.
I step back.
“Oh my God.”
“No,” she says. “Not the way you think.”
“What way should I think?”
“He came here once.”
My breath stops.
“When?”
“After you were gone.”
The room tilts slightly.
“He came here?”
“Yes.”
Pain flashes across her face.
“I was afraid.”
“Of him?”
She looks down.
My anger thins.
Fear leaves marks.
I know that now.
I know how it changes the way a person stands, the way they answer, the way they keep watching doors.
My mother looks smaller in her own kitchen.
“What did he want?” I ask.
She rubs at her wrist.
“He wanted to know if you contacted me. He wanted to know if you came here. He said dangerous people were around you and that he was trying to protect you.”
“Lorenzo.”
She does not speak.
“He meant Lorenzo.”
“He said Lorenzo had taken you.”
“He did.”
The truth lands between us.
My mother’s eyes lift.
I swallow hard.
“But not the way Francesco would have told it.”
“Then tell me.”
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Because where do I begin?
The masked party?
The gunfire?
Lorenzo holding Elsie?
The way I hated him?
The way I do not know how to hate him now?
My stomach rolls suddenly.
I grip the edge of the table.
My mother steps forward.
“Victoria?”
“I’m fine.”
“You look pale.”
“I said I’m fine.”
The lie tastes bitter.
She stops again.
That careful distance returns.
There is a line on the kitchen floor she is afraid to cross.
I look at her properly then.
The faint shadows under her eyes.
The way she keeps her phone turned face down.
The curtains closed in the middle of the day.
The back door locked at the top and bottom.
This is not only worry.
This is fear that has lived here long enough to learn the shape of the house.
“I came here to tell you everything,” I say, quieter now. “I came because I wanted my old life back.”
Her eyes fill.
“I’m going back to teaching. I need to. I need my classroom. My students. My routine. I need to be Victoria again.”
My mother’s mouth trembles.
“That life may not be there the way you left it.”
“Why would you say that?”
She looks away.
“Mum.”
“I only mean time changes things.”
“No. That is not what you mean.”
She says nothing.
My phone buzzes in my bag.
I know who it might be before I look.
Lorenzo.
Maybe not calling.
Maybe one of his men checking in.