Chapter 29 #2
Mrs. Helen nods once before heading out the door. When I turn around, I find Truett and my mother sitting in the arcade with two fizzy sodas between them on the table. They both look exhausted, but the matching smiles on their faces soften the weariness around their eyes.
My stomach knots, nerves coming with a vengeance. I’m tempted to walk through the doors and not look back… but that only delays the inevitable. My decision is made for me when both Truett and my mom look toward me as if sensing my internal dilemma.
Here goes fucking everything.
My legs move before my mind can catch up, like I’m being pulled forward by some invisible force.
I don’t stop until I’m standing in front of the empty chair at the table.
Sitting down feels like trying to move through water—heavy, slow, deliberate—but I manage to lower myself into the seat, aware of both their eyes on me like spotlights.
My fingers thrum against the table, a nervous tic I’ve never been able to shake. I can’t bring myself to look at my mom. Maybe that makes me a coward, but I keep my gaze fixed on anything but her. Then I feel Truett’s hand wrap around mine—steady and grounding—stopping my thrumming motion.
I let out a shaky breath. “Mom, we need to talk.”
“Seems so.” I can’t make out her tone. Is she already angry? Upset?
I take another deep breath. Why is this so fucking hard?
“Mom… I…” I trail off, instinctually looking at Truett, needing his strength. He squeezes my hand as if to say, I’m here. Once again, I take a deep breath. “It’s about the alley. I know how much this alley means to you and how much it meant to dad. How it was his pride and joy—”
“Mijo, no. You were his pride and joy. This alley? This was something he started so he could spend more time at home and less time on the road. Remember how he used to be a semi driver? You were so young, so maybe you don’t. He thought Spare Time would allow him to have more time with you.”
My head snaps to attention, brows furrowed. “Dad used to be a semi driver? How did I not know this?”
Mom just shrugs. “It was long ago. You were so small. It feels like a lifetime ago.” Her smile doesn’t quite meet her eyes.
I know speaking about Dad is hard on her.
They had been together since high school, and I can’t imagine the pain of being separated from your soulmate and forced to do life without them.
“Well, the point still stands. Dad loved this alley, and people loved Dad. He had a way of making this alley come alive. People came here to bowl, sure, but they also came for Dad. He created a sense of community because of how much he loved what he did. When he died—” my voice cracks.
Grief is strange. My father’s been gone for a year now. I’ve learned to cope with the loss, but sometimes it comes out of nowhere, and the stabbing pain feels as fresh as the day it happened. The grief never leaves; it always lingers just around the corner, waiting for its moment to strike.
My mom reaches for the hand Truett isn’t holding. I don’t need to look at her to know she’s crying. The dam holding my tears back is close to bursting. “I’ve wanted to make him proud. I’ve only ever wanted to make you both proud of me. You’ve given me so much in this life, and I need to return it.”
“That’s not your job.”
“But—”
“No buts, mi amor. A parent’s job is to take care of their children. To love their children, no matter what. Your father and I have always been proud of you, and I know he’d be proud of the man you became.”
For what feels like the hundredth time today, fucking tears roll down my face.
I’m so over crying, so over being a disappointment.
I can’t stop the words from flying out of my mouth.
“No, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t because I’m tarnishing his legacy.
He left the alley to me, to run after his death.
But the thing is, Mom, I’m fucking miserable here.
I run the alley because I know it’s what Dad wanted.
And I know our livelihood depends on this place.
If you asked me to run it for the rest of my life, I would.
No hesitation. But it would wear me down, year after year, until I couldn’t even recognize myself anymore. I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so fucking sorry.”
My words dissolve into a broken sob. I think I’m still talking, but nothing that leaves my mouth makes any sense—just fractured sounds, choked by grief.
My chest heaves as I lean into the weight of it all—the darkness, the years of silence, of holding everything in so tightly it feels like I’ve cracked open from the inside.
I can’t stop now. It’s all spilling out. Every ugly, buried truth. Every shameful thought I never dared say aloud.
And she hears it. My mother hears every word, every raw confession. Now she knows. She knows what kind of son I really am. As if being miserable wasn’t punishment enough—I had to drag her heart down with mine, shatter it like I shattered everything else.