31. Chapter Thirty-One - Joyful Reprieve
Awarm hand rested against my cheek, soft and gentle, its heat sinking into my skin like it had always belonged there.
I felt it even through the haze of sleep, anchored somewhere deep inside a dream I hadn’t wanted to leave.
My body leaned into the touch without thinking, a quiet murmur slipping from me as I curled deeper into the pillow, everything moving slow and weightless, like drifting through a lazy beach day with the sun warming my back and the ocean pulling me under in the gentlest way.
In the dream, water lapped at my sides, cool and steady, wrapping around me like it knew exactly how to hold me together.
Someone was swimming toward me from the shore, close enough that I could feel the pull of them without being able to make out their face.
My arms reached through the waves anyway, cutting through the water with a familiar ache building in my chest.
Then the dream fractured.
My eyes fluttered open, vision blurry and heavy, and I startled at the figure above me, my mind still tangled in sleep until her voice settled.
“Morning, Ladybug,” my ma sang softly, her tone light and careful, like she didn’t want to jar me awake.
“Ma…” I croaked, my voice thick with sleep as I wiggled deeper into the covers, my body resisting consciousness the way it always did. “What’s up?”
“You’re hanging with me today,” she reminded me gently, brushing my hair back before straightening. “Remember?”
“Right…” I nodded slowly, blinking against the fog in my head. “I was sleepin’ so good.”
“I could tell,” she chuckled, already turning toward the door. “I’ll be downstairs. I made breakfast.”
“You made breakfast?” I echoed, sitting up straighter, suspicion sharpening my tone despite myself.
“Yes,” she hummed, not even glancing back as she closed the door with an almost unsettling amount of serenity.
I stared at the door for a long moment.
Breakfast? From her?
I loved my ma, but cooking had never exactly been her strong suit.
It was more her personal talent for turning simple meals into charred disasters that left you wondering where everything had gone wrong.
All scorched eggs and mystery meats that barely pretended to be edible.
Still, the fact that she’d tried at all tugged at something soft inside me, a warm flutter low in my chest mixed with quiet guilt because I hadn’t really been around much lately.
This felt like her way of pulling me back in, reaching out with whatever she had.
And if surviving her version of breakfast was the price of showing up for her, then yeah, I could handle that without making a big deal about it.
With a groan, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood, my movements slow and heavy with leftover sleep. I stretched, yawned, and shuffled into the hallway before making my way downstairs.
The second I reached the bottom step, I paused.
There was a smell.
Not bad exactly. Just… concerning.
Toasty and faintly sweet, with an undercurrent of something I couldn’t quite identify. Equal parts intriguing and mildly threatening. I padded toward the kitchen and peeked around the corner like I was checking for danger.
“Eggs, bacon, toast, and milk,” my ma announced proudly the moment she spotted me, hands planted on her hips while she beamed at the plate like it was a masterpiece instead of a low-level culinary crime scene.
I slid carefully into the nearest chair with the reverence of someone trying not to hurt feelings or accidentally poison themselves. My gaze dropped to the plate, and I worked hard not to wince.
“The toast’s a little burnt,” I offered carefully, keeping my tone diplomatic.
She rolled her eyes but grinned. “I may or may not have forgotten about it,” she admitted, tossing her hands up. “Just for a moment, though!”
“Uh-huh,” I muttered with a smirk as I reached for the bacon anyway.
I took a cautious bite, chewing slowly, and my brain instantly confirmed what my eyes had already warned me about.
Dry. Overcooked. Nearly flavorless.
An actual tragedy.
I swallowed anyway.
“Thanks for breakfast, Ma,” I said, and I meant it.
The eggs weren’t much better, rubbery and uneven, but I didn’t complain.
I pushed through each bite because deep down I knew it wasn’t really about the food anyway.
Growing up, our mornings had always been rushed chaos and takeout containers, cold leftovers scattered across counters, Chinese food eaten straight from the carton, or pizza slices grabbed on the fly because she’d been up way too late buried in translating work again.
She had always been hustling to keep things together for us, always providing in the ways that mattered most. Cooking just had never been her thing, something she skipped over without a second thought.
Honestly, I’d never held that against her; I never once felt deprived because what she gave me reached so much deeper than any meal ever could.
“What’re the plans for today?” I asked as I pulled the seatbelt across my lap and clicked it into place.
She glanced at me, amusement flickering across her face. “Don’t you still like surprises?”
I let out a long sigh and rested my head against the cool window, watching the world blur past outside.
“’Course I do,” I muttered, resignation softening the words despite the small smile tugging at my mouth. “Fine. Just surprise me, then.”
“That’s what I thought,” she said, satisfaction woven neatly into her tone. “You really did enjoy surprises when you were younger. I think it was the attention more than anything.”
I groaned and dropped my head back dramatically against the headrest.
“I can’t even argue with that, and I hate it,” I said before smirking at her. “It’s nice being pampered, though. Probably one of my favorite pastimes.”
“I think you get that from your father,” she laughed softly, shaking her head like she was trying to dislodge a memory that had surfaced without permission.
“It has to be,” I replied, lifting a brow. “Because you hate attention. Remember when Pa tried to surprise you with that vow renewal ceremony? All that planning behind your back?”
She huffed softly, the sound edged with old emotion, and nodded.
“Yes. One of the last things he tried doing before we ended things,” she murmured. “He really did try, all the way until the very end.”
There was heaviness behind her eyes, the kind carried by memories you never fully put down. I noticed it at once and reached over without thinking, resting my hand gently on her shoulder.
“He’s happy with Trist now, Ma. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”
She smiled then, careful and practiced, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I put him through a lot,” she admitted with a shrug that tried to sound lighter than it was. “But you’re right. He’s truly blessed with Trist. She’s good for him.”
“Not long before Mae turns four,” I added quietly, picturing my little half-sister and the way she laughed like the world hadn’t taught her fear yet.
“She’s growing up so fast,” my ma said, warmth thickening her voice. “I can’t believe it’s been six years already.”
We turned a corner, the tires whispering against the pavement, and I let the silence settle for a moment before speaking again.
“It really was the best decision, Ma. For everyone. Especially for you.”
She hummed in agreement, the sound vibrating softly through her chest.
“You’re right,” she said slowly, as though letting each word settle into place. “I raised such a smart daughter.”
I giggled, flipping my hair over my shoulder. “Yes, you did.”
The heaviness faded as easily as it had arrived, and she shot me a mischievous look.
“Are you ready to have some fun?” I eyed her suspiciously.
“As long as we can’t die from it,” I muttered, suddenly very wary of her definition of fun.
“No, no dying,” she smirked. “But it is going to be violent.”
My mouth fell open. “What?!”
“You’ll see,” she sang, pressing the gas a little harder.
And see, we did.
She took me to one of those rage rooms, the kind where destruction wasn’t just allowed but actively encouraged.
The kind where they handed you a sledgehammer and full permission to lose your mind for a little while.
As she paid and accepted the room number, I side-eyed her, suspicion curling low in my gut.
“So,” I said, keeping my tone casual, “what’s going on at work?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” she replied way too quickly, tying her hair into a ponytail with one sharp, decisive tug. “I just thought this would be fun.”
I raised a brow but didn’t push it.
“I mean… it does look fun,” I muttered, already surrendering to the chaotic appeal of the whole thing.
Once we were suited up, she didn’t hesitate.
She charged an old mirror like it had personally offended her, swinging with enough force to send glass exploding outward in a glittering storm.
For a second, I just stared at her, stunned.
Then laughter burst out of me, wild and uncontrollable.
We laughed until we were wheezing, the sound ricocheting off the padded walls while shards settled around our shoes.
When it was my turn, I grabbed an aluminum bat and went after a dead television like it owed me money.
Every swing landed with a brutal crunch, my arms aching as glass and plastic shattered beneath the force of the hits.
A raw, twisted relief built inside me the harder I swung, the violent crack of everything breaking drowning out every nagging thought lodged in my head until there was nothing left but noise, impact, and release.
And when I finally stopped, breathing hard with my hands trembling from the effort, it felt like stepping back from the edge of something overwhelming, leaving me exhausted but strangely clearer.
“Looks like you needed that more than I did,” my mother said from the corner, relaxed against the wall.
I yanked off my mask and reached for a water bottle like my life depended on it.
“Maybe,” I muttered between breaths. “That felt… really good.”