Chapter 24
Soft chatter fills the library as Henry’s writing group sets up for their reading night. I stand near the back of the room, trying to push aside the heaviness in my chest.
I wasn’t going to come tonight. My conversation with Henry still feels fresh, and being in the same room is difficult. I can still hear the desperation in his voice, but I can’t ignore the uncertainty I’m carrying.
Wren squeezes my hand, and it surprises me. I almost forgot she was here. I look over, and she gives me a warm smile of encouragement.
“Where’s Milo?” I question, searching the room for my son.
“He’s coloring in the corner with some of the other kids,” she answers, pointing across the room.
I glance over and see his bright smile lighting up at whatever he’s working on.
The scene brings a calmness over my body.
It’s a gentle reminder that no matter how complicated things get with Henry, I have bigger things to focus on.
I might not always be the best mother, but I will make sure I always try my hardest to give him a good life. No matter what.
I try to remember that feeling when my eyes float to Henry’s mop of brown curls at the front of the room.
He’s speaking with a few teenagers from his writing group, adjusting his glasses and moving his hands as he explains something.
Even from here, I can see the passion in his expression as he talks about their writing. My heart thumps against my chest.
Wren nudges my shoulder. “You okay?”
I nod quickly, trying to cover up the pain seeping through my skin. “Yeah. I’m just thinking.”
She raises an eyebrow, her tone light but knowing. “About him?”
I glance over at Henry again. His back is turned to me, but I can still feel the tension of everything hanging between us. It crackles through the air, sharp and unresolved. “I know I told him to give me space until he figures things out, but this feels like torture.”
Wren takes a deep breath beside me. “I know, but you did the right thing.”
I nod and bite the inside of my cheek, willing myself not to look at him. To focus on anything else. Thankfully, the main reason I’m here walks into the room, and it’s easier to forget the stinging feeling in my chest.
“Hi, Julia,” I say with a smile.
“You came,” she says, returning the gesture.
“Of course. I said I would, didn’t I?”
Julia laughs lightly, her brown hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Her eyes scan the room, looking for a familiar face. The corners of her lips stretch into a straight line when she comes up empty.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, following her gaze. I already know what’s wrong. I am deeply familiar with the emotions painted across her face.
“Oh, nothing,” she lies before looking down at her shoes. “My mom said she could make it tonight, but it’s fine.”
I reach out, placing a hand gently on her arm. “I’m sorry, Julia. I know how much it means to have her here.”
She looks up at me, her eyes briefly flickering with frustration and disappointment. “Yeah, well, I guess it’s just the same as always.”
I can feel the weight of her words, the unspoken pain behind them. I wish there was something I could do to take it away, but sometimes, all you can offer is a space for them to feel.
“You’re up soon,” I say softly, squeezing Julia’s arm before letting go. “You’re going to do great.”
She nods, but her shoulders stay hunched. Her fingers nervously fidget with the edges of paper in her hands as she moves towards the front of the room. There’s a raw ache in my chest that I can’t shake. The ache comes from seeing too much of yourself in someone else.
Henry steps up to the small podium, and my breath hitches. His voice cuts through the room like butter, grabbing everyone’s attention.
“Thank you all for coming to our reading night. I’ve had the pleasure of working with this group all summer, and let me just say I’ve enjoyed it more than the college students I normally work with.” The innocent quip is rewarded with soft laughter throughout the room.
“I’m so proud of each and every one of them, and I’m happy we will get to celebrate their talent tonight. First up is Julia, who will be sharing a short story she’s been working on for the past few weeks.”
As Henry steps aside, he glances at me briefly for the first time tonight. His gaze holds steady, a silent acknowledgment of everything left unsaid.
I quickly look away, focusing instead on Julia as she approaches the microphone. Her paper shakes slightly in her hands, but she clears her throat and starts reading.
Her voice is soft at first, but it grows with each sentence. Her piece is called Fractures, a short story about the delicate, painful relationship between a mother and daughter.
Her words wrap around each person's ears in this room, but I can feel her story in my soul. Every syllable hits me like a shard of glass slicing through my heart. She speaks of longing, hope crushed beneath the weight of disappointment, and quiet resilience born from learning to stand alone.
By the time she finishes, my vision is blurred. The applause is thunderous, and when I see Julia’s lips tilt up into a smile worthy of attention, a warmth spreads across my body.
I look at Julia and see the power of turning pain into something that can help others.
It makes me realize my pain does not make me weak.
It allows me to empower others and make a difference in a small way or another.
It helps me realize my future could mean helping more teens like Julia find their power.
More importantly, it made me realize I must use my voice to make a difference.
“Hey, can you watch Milo? I need to make a quick phone call,” I say to Wren before wiping a rogue tear off my cheek.
Wren gives me a curious glance but nods. “Of course. Take your time.”
I step outside into the cool summer evening. I grip my phone tightly, and my fingers hover over my mother’s name in my contacts. My chest strains, and for a moment, I think about turning back. But Julia’s words echo in my mind, pushing me forward.
I hit call. The line rings once, twice, and just when I think I’ll get her voicemail, she picks up. “Emma?” she says, her tone cautious. “Is everything okay?”
I take a shaky breath. “No, Mom. It’s not.”
There’s silence on her end, and I keep going before I lose my nerve. “I need to say some things, and I need you to listen.”
Her voice is quiet. “Okay.”
“I’ve spent my whole life trying to get you to be the kind of mother I deserve,” I begin, my voice trembling.
“Trying to get you to show up for me, care, and just…be there. But you never were. And it’s not because I didn’t deserve it.
It’s because you couldn’t or wouldn’t. And that’s on you, not me. ”
She exhales sharply. “Emma, I—”
“No,” I interrupt, my voice firm. “You don’t get to explain or make excuses. Not anymore. I’ve spent too much of my life carrying around the pain of your choices. I’ve bent over backward trying to make you care, but I’m done.”
Her voice is shaky when she speaks again. “You don’t know what it was like for me. Raising a kid on my own, trying to make something of myself. I did the best I could.”
“Did you?” The words come out before I can stop them, low and edged with years of hurt I’ve tried to bury. “Because it sure felt like you were doing what was best for you. Not me.”
The other end of the line is quiet for a moment before she starts speaking again. “You’re still holding onto that? Emma, you’re a mother now. You should understand how hard it is.”
“I do understand,” I say quietly, my throat tight. “That’s why I’m here, doing everything I can for Milo. I don’t just show up when it’s convenient. I won’t do that.”
Her sharp inhale on the other end tells me I’ve struck a nerve. There’s a slight dip in my stomach at the silence. I don’t want to hurt her, but she needs to feel the weight of this. I’ve carried it long enough.
“Emma,” she begins, her voice softer now, almost pleading. “I know I wasn’t perfect—”
“You weren’t anything,” I cut in. “I needed you. I needed you to care about my scraped knees, nightmares, and school plays. I needed you to see me, but you were too busy trying to escape your own life to bother with mine.”
“I was doing what I had to do to survive,” she says, her voice defensive.
“But I was a kid, Mom!” I snap. The words rip out of me like they’ve been clawing to escape for years. “I didn’t need you to be perfect. I just needed you to try.”
Silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating. For a moment, I think I’ll be greeted with the harsh dial tone of her hanging up, but then I hear a shaky exhale.
“You don’t understand, Emma,” she says, her tone deflated. “You think it was easy for me to look at you and see everything I’d failed at? Every time I saw you, it was like looking in a mirror and seeing someone who wasn’t good enough to be a mother.”
Her words sink into my skin but don’t soften my resolve.
“You’ve had so long to change your mind and be a part of my life.
And Milo’s life. But you chose to pull away because you knew I’d always welcome you back with open arms. But not anymore.
Now I have a choice, and I choose to let go of waiting for something you can’t give me. ”
“Emma—” she starts, but her voice cracks. For the first time in my life, I hear something that sounds like vulnerability.
“I forgive you,” I say, surprising myself. The words taste foreign but right. “Not for you, but for me. Because I can’t keep carrying this pain around anymore, I need to move on.”
The silence this time is different. It’s not angry or defensive—it’s quiet and full of regret.
“I’m sorry,” she finally whispers, and something shifts inside me. I’ve been waiting for an apology for so long, yet it’s too late.
“I know,” I say, swallowing my tears. “But sorry doesn’t fix it. I don’t know if anything will ever fix it, but you need to figure that out for yourself, Mom.”
“Thank you for saying what you needed to say.”