26. Willow
26
WILLOW
Death seems to be a friend of mine now and I don’t know how to stop my acquaintanceship with him. He seems to be ruthless and foolish and intent on ruining my life.
I know I ran from my mother. I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t look at her after all those nights of being alone filled my brain, wishing and praying that she would come back. The loneliness— It ate me alive as a child.
I wouldn’t wish this on anyone; it is as if the minute the universe hears that I am OK, it drags me back to being small and afraid, kicking and screaming, back to being my grief-filled self.
Last time I saw my mother she didn’t look sick. She didn’t look like anything was wrong with her. In fact, she just looked older and worn yet healthy as the last time I saw her. I guess that is the fucked up part about illness, how normal everyone looks. How one minute you can look like the older version of a 34-year-old who abandoned her daughter for a ‘better’ life, and then only three months later you look as if death has touched you.
I hold my breath as my gaze shifts over the gray shadows lining my mother’s face. Her high cheekbones, once proud and full, now seem to sag with the weight of time and sickness. Her smile, though there, is empty—nothing more than a hollow echo of what used to be. The light catches her eyes, but even that can’t mask the exhaustion there, the fading sparkle that used to shine so brightly.
Her once-defined jawline is now skeletal, hollowed out by whatever poison is eating her from the inside. Her hand shakes slightly as she taps on the table, a nervous tic I’ve seen numerous times, but now it feels like a desperate plea for control.
“Come on, Will bear,” she says, her voice cracking a little. “You got to talk to me. You got to say something.”
She tilts her head at an odd angle, almost childlike in the way she looks up at me. Like she expects me to just forgive her, to let everything slide because now, when death is knocking on her door, she wants a moment of connection.
The anger inside me churns, hot and raw, threatening to spill over. I want to scream, tell her all the things that have been festering inside me for years.
The things I’ve carried around like a weight. ‘You abandoned me. You left me to pick up the pieces of a broken family while you ran off to live your life. And now, you expect me to care? Good luck, Mom. I hope cancer doesn’t kill you as quickly as the guilt that you’ll never feel for what you did.’
Or how about this: ‘Fuck you for even thinking that when you're on your deathbed, you have the right to talk to me like this. To expect me to just open up and say something that means anything at all.’
But then, the words I’ve rehearsed in my mind so many times before suddenly feel hollow. How does it sound to say, ‘I love you, Mom. I miss you. I miss Dad. And I’m scared... and I feel like I’m alone’? How does that feel? Like shit. It’s all bullshit.
Before I came here, I wrote letters. I thought maybe if I put it all down on paper, I’d feel better. But now, standing here, looking at her—none of it matters.
I don’t want to say anything at all.
I wish I could shut my mouth, just walk away and leave her to her death, but the pain that weighs me down, the rawness of everything, keeps me rooted to this spot. And still, the silence stretches, thick and suffocating, as I try to figure out what to do with all the chaos inside me.
“OK, how about I talk first? I will tell you everything you need to know about the last couple of years of my life. Where should I start?” She thrums her fingers against the table with an excited gleam in her eye. “Five years ago I went to Paris. I really want to go-”
”What?”
She wiggles her eyebrows, and I glance out the window at the guys, who are leaning against Damien’s Dodge Challenger and staring at us as if we’re prey—well as if my mother is prey. When my eyes land on Vincent, he winks at me and my cheeks beat a bright red.
“So while dad and I were starving, trying to figure out where our next meal was coming from, you were gallivanting around in Paris?” I fold my arms over my chest and scrunch up my nose in a sarcastic manner. “How fun!”
My mother’s smile falters, but she quickly recovers, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “Paris was a gift, Will. A moment of freedom. You wouldn’t understand.”
I want to scream. I want to tear into her, ask her how she could abandon us and then run off to Paris. How does that make sense? But the words don’t come out. Instead, I sit there, simmering in my own anger, biting down on the resentment that threatens to choke me.
"Right," I say, my voice tight with disbelief. "Freedom. Meanwhile, Dad and I were just trying to stay alive while you were sipping wine by the Eiffel Tower."
Her face twitches, and she shifts in her chair uncomfortably. The excuse hangs in the air between us, but I don’t believe it. I never did.
"Willow, you need to understand," she starts, her voice softer now, almost pleading. "There’s more to it than you think. You think I had it easy, but I didn’t. I had my own demons to fight."
I let out a bitter laugh. "Yeah? And where were you when I needed you? When I was seven and wondering why my mother didn’t want to be around? When I was fifteen, my heart was failing, needing my mother —where were you then?"
Her face tightens, but there’s no denial, no defense. She just looks at me, those same empty eyes, and for the first time, I see a flicker of regret. But it’s not enough. Not enough to undo everything.
The silence hangs heavy again, and I find myself getting lost in the chaos of my emotions. There’s so much I want to say, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Part of me wants to walk out, to leave this all behind and forget about her. But another part of me is trapped, stuck in the past, still hoping—no matter how much I wish I could stop—that some part of her will finally see me; that she’ll finally care.
I glance out the window again, at the guys still leaning against Damien’s car. The sun is setting, casting long shadows across the pavement. The way they’re all staring at us, at her, makes me feel like I’m safe and protected under their watchful eyes. And then my gaze lands on Vincent. He’s standing tall, a smirk tugging at his lips, and he winks at me again. The heat floods my cheeks, a rush of warmth I wasn’t expecting, but it’s familiar.
"OK," my mother interrupts, still looking at me with that gleam in her eye, like she’s forgotten everything that just passed between us. "Tell me, which one is your boyfriend? The way they all look at you, you'd think they each have a claim over you."
The question throws me off. I laugh, the sound escaping a little more hysterically than I intended. I can’t help it, though—there’s something so absurd about her even thinking she has the right to ask. "All of them?" I say, trying to deflect. "Maybe they just like the view."
Her eyebrows shoot up, her lips twisting into a sly grin. "Is that so? Well, you’ve certainly got a good problem on your hands then, haven’t you?"
I can’t help but smile at the thought. All of them owning me, caring for me—sounds like the best day of my life. But I’m not ready to say that out loud. Not yet. I can’t even begin to explain how complicated everything is. How Vincent being my fiancé, now, changes everything. I don’t know what Damien or Cast will think about it, and I’m terrified they might hate me for it.
Her face softens, but she doesn’t seem ashamed. "Life’s complicated, Willow. You wouldn’t know, but?—"
"Complicated?" I cut her off, leaning forward now, my frustration bubbling to the surface. "Complicated doesn’t explain abandoning your family! It doesn’t explain the years of silence!”
My mother’s eyes flicker, and for a moment, I see something break in her. She hesitates, her fingers stopping their restless tapping on the table. The softness in her gaze catches me off guard, and for the briefest second, I wonder if she’s about to explain, to finally open up the way I’ve always needed her to.
“I found out I had limited time,” she says, her voice suddenly fragile, laced with a kind of vulnerability I haven’t heard from her in years. “I didn’t want to die with regrets. I wanted to live, Willow. Really live.”
I blink, stunned by the confession. “What do you mean, you wanted to live ?” I ask, my voice thick with disbelief. “You left me, Mom. You left Dad. You didn’t even try to be a mother! How does running off to Paris and living your life without a care make any damn sense? What kind of living is that?”
She lowers her gaze, her face crumpling for a moment, but then she looks back at me with a sharpness in her eyes. “I wasn’t living before, Willow. I was suffocating, drowning in a life I thought I was supposed to have, not the one I wanted . You think I wasn’t torn apart by leaving you and your father? But I had to do it. I couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t.”
“You should have stayed,” I snap, my voice rising. “You should’ve stayed and fought . We needed you, Mom. I needed you. Don’t give me that ‘I had to find myself’ bullshit. You didn’t even try to fight for us!”
Her face hardens, and she leans in a little, her eyes fierce despite the weakness in her body. “You think I didn’t fight?” she shoots back, her words sharp like a knife. “You think I didn’t try to make something of myself before all of this? You think it was easy, walking away from everything, from you? But I couldn’t keep living for other people, Willow. I had to live for myself, even if it meant I wouldn’t be there for you. It wasn’t an easy choice, but it was mine to make.”
I feel the anger burn through me, hot and thick. “Your ‘living for yourself’ meant abandoning your family. It meant hurting us, Mom. You didn’t just leave, you left a wound that I’ve carried around my entire life. And now, you think you can just come back and make everything okay? You think you can apologize your way out of this?”
Her lips tremble, and I see her eyes glisten, but I’m past feeling sympathy. I’m past feeling sorry for her.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” she whispers, her voice cracking under the weight of her own regret. “But I couldn’t stay, Willow. I couldn’t. I was suffocating in my own life, and when I found out I didn’t have much time left, I realized that I needed to live . Not for you. Not for anyone else. Just for me, for the first time in my life.”
I shake my head, tears pricking at the back of my eyes, but I fight them back. "Well, guess what, Mom? You can’t just live for yourself anymore. You’re dying. And you think you can fix everything with a few words now? It’s too late. It’s too damn late.”
I stare at my mother, my chest tight, my stomach churning. The anger’s still bubbling inside me, but now it feels different—colder, harder. I can’t stand looking at her, can’t stand hearing her pathetic excuses anymore.
I throw a glance at Damien, who’s still watching me, his face etched with compassion and concern, but his silence is almost worse than anything he’s said.
Then, I turn back to my mom. “You know what? Forget it,” I snap, my voice sharp. “I can’t do this. I can’t keep doing this with you.”
My hands are shaking again, but not from anger—more like the weight of everything I’ve just realized. The bitterness that’s been festering for years suddenly rises up in my throat, and I can’t stop it.
I reach into my pocket, pull out a crumpled $50 bill, and slap it down on the table between us with enough force to make the paper flutter. Her eyes widen, like she’s not sure what to make of it. I don’t care.
“Here,” I say, my voice hard and final. “Get whatever you want. Your last meal, or whatever the hell it is. I don’t give a shit.”
I stand up abruptly, my chair scraping loudly against the floor, the motion sharp and jarring in the quiet diner. I can’t even look at her anymore. I’ve said everything I needed to say, and it feels like there’s nothing left.
I storm out of the diner, the sound of the door slamming behind me echoing in my ears. My heart pounds in my chest, a mixture of fury and pain surging through me. I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe she thinks a few fucking words can fix everything after years of neglect, of abandonment.
I can’t breathe, can’t think straight with all the shit swirling inside my head. My legs carry me without thinking, the cold air outside hitting me like a slap to the face, but it does nothing to calm the fire burning within me. My hands tremble at my sides, and I mutter under my breath, “Fuck her. Fuck her and everything she did to me. I don't give a shit about her regrets now.”
I hear footsteps behind me, and before I can even register what’s happening, I feel Damien's presence—his heavy footsteps catching up to me.
“Willow, wait up,” he calls out, his voice a little too soft, too understanding.
I whirl around, my face flushed with anger. “No, Damien. I’m done. You want me to feel sorry for her? After everything she did to me, after the hell she put me through, you want me to give her a chance ? Fuck that.”
His expression hardens, and I can see the frustration in his eyes, but I don’t care. "You’re being irrational," he snaps. “She’s dying, Willow. You’re going to regret this—regret shutting her out—just like I regret the last time I saw my mom.”
I freeze, his words slicing through the haze of anger in my head. “What the hell are you talking about?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Damien takes a step closer, his eyes locking onto mine. “My mom... she gave you her heart, Willow. She gave me everything she could when she was alive, and I was upset with her when she told me about you. I didn’t speak to her in her final hours. I didn’t give her the chance to make things right, and now... I can’t ever take that back. I’ll live with that regret for the rest of my life.”
My chest tightens at his words, but it only fuels my anger further. “You’re not me, and you don’t get to tell me how to feel about my mother.”
I take a step back, my hands balling into fists. “You have no idea what this feels like. So don’t fucking tell me how to handle it.”
Damien’s jaw clenches, and in a split second, he moves. One arm wraps around my waist, the other locking around my legs, and before I can even process what’s happening, he lifts me off the ground. I gasp, kicking my legs as I feel the shock of being thrown over his shoulder.
“Damien, what the fuck are you doing?” I scream, pounding my fists against his back, but he doesn’t budge.
“Shut up, Willow,” he growls. “You’re going back inside. We’re not doing this out here.”
I keep struggling, but the bastard is strong—stronger than I could’ve ever expected—and within seconds, I’m back inside the diner. Damien is holding me effortlessly as he makes his way to the chair where my mother is still sitting, sobbing.
She looks up at me as Damien dumps me in the seat and sits next to me. “Hi, I’m Damien, Willow’s boyfriend. You found me at my school arena and asked me to talk to her for you.”
She sniffles and nods. “Hi Damien, I remember you.”
"Listen," he starts, turning to me, "I know Willow is not ready to forgive you, and that's fine. But until she is, you are going to live at our penthouse for now. They’ll take you there."
I feel the anger rise again, my pulse spiking. “What the fuck do you mean? She doesn’t get to waltz back into my life like this, Damien! She doesn’t get to walk in, screw everything up, and then expect a place to stay like nothing happened.”
Damien's jaw tightens, but he doesn’t back down. "She’s dying, Willow. You’re going to have to deal with that sooner or later. Cast is helping her for now because you’re not ready. But that doesn’t mean you can shut her out completely."
I’m about to explode, the words burning on the tip of my tongue, when my mother looks up at me, her eyes wide, her voice desperate. "Willow, please…"
I cut her off with a sharp glare, and Damien speaks ahead of me. “Go, Mrs. Carter.”
She looks at me, sadness piercing in her eyes before leaving the diner and walking up to Vincent and Cast. I stare at her empty seat as silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating, until Damien stands up and walks to the door, looking back at me over his shoulder. "I’ll be outside.”
I can’t contain the frustration building up inside me. As I watch them leave, I finally snap. "I’m so fucking glad I’m Vincent’s fiancé and not yours!" The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them, the venom in my voice sharper than anything I’ve ever felt.
Damien stops in his tracks, his back stiffening. His eyes flicker darker, and I know I’ve crossed a line. Without a word, he turns around and storms out of the diner, a blur of motion before I even realize what’s happening. Cast is driving off from the diner in his car just as the sickening crack of a punch rings across the parking lot.