Chapter 45 The Things I Should Have Said #2
“I caught them,” I repeat. “I wasn’t imagining it. They were half-naked. In your house. On your desk. Like it didn’t matter who might see.”
The words burn. I don’t soften them.
“I was going to propose that night,” I add, quieter now. “The ring was in my jacket.”
Her hand flies to her mouth. She reaches for me without thinking.
I let out a short, bitter laugh. “Do you know what that does to a man? Watching the woman he thinks he’s going to marry with his stepfather?”
She can’t answer.
“I’ve been running ever since.”
The truth spills faster now.
“I couldn’t come home. I couldn’t watch you smile at him, say his name like he deserved it. I knew I’d lose it—and you’d hate me for it.”
My eyes fix on the wall behind her.
“I hated him. Still do. But worse than that—I hated that you didn’t know. That I let you live in that lie because I was too scared to tear it down.”
I drag a hand over my face.
“I loved her. Or thought I did. And part of me wondered if I deserved it. If I was just some stupid kid with a ring and a fantasy.”
My voice thickens, edges blurring.
I haven’t been drinking.
I’m just drunk on grief.
“After Dad died, I promised myself I’d protect you,” I say. “I was twelve. Sitting on that stairwell, thinking it was my job to hold you together.”
I laugh once—sharp, humorless. “Turns out, I couldn’t even hold myself together.”
My hand fists on my knee, nails biting into my palm, but I keep going.
“You ever wonder why I threw myself into work? Why I built this company like it was life or death? I needed something that couldn’t betray me.
Something that wouldn’t kiss me goodnight and then crawl into someone else’s bed.
” I finally look at her. “I didn’t just lose her that night.
I lost you. And I’ve been too scared to admit how much that cost me. ”
The words sit between us, heavy.
“I didn’t say anything,” I add quietly. “I left. Broke it off. Started over in Chicago. Told myself if I didn’t tell you, maybe I could protect you.”
She doesn’t react right away.
No flinch. No gasp. No retreat.
She sets her mug down carefully, like it might shatter, then stands and walks toward me. Her slippers whisper against the floor, and for a second I’m twelve again, bracing for disappointment.
Instead, she kneels and cups my face.
Not anger.
Heartbreak. Rage—but not at me. That bone-deep kind of mother-love.
“Oh, baby,” she whispers, and something inside me finally cracks.
Her thumbs brush my cheeks, steady even though I’m not crying. Not yet.
“You carried that alone?” she asks. “All this time?”
I nod.
She exhales, shaky. “I knew something happened that night. I just never imagined…” Her voice falters. “My God. My son.”
Her hands don’t leave my face.
“I would’ve left him that same night,” she says fiercely. “Thrown his things into the hallway and called a lawyer without blinking. I don’t care how it would’ve looked.”
I really look at her now. She isn’t just sad.
She’s angry. She’s grieving. She’s strong.
“I don’t need a man to make me whole,” she says. “Your father taught me that. He loved me at my fullest. Carver was never that. Not even close.”
I try to speak. She shakes her head.
“No. Let me finish.”
She settles back, hands resting on my knees.
“You thought you were protecting me. And I love you for it. But it was never your job to shield me from heartbreak.” Her voice softens. “It’s my job to protect you.”
And that’s when I fold.
Not into a collapse. Not into tears.
But into her arms—into her chest, the warmth of her neck—as she gathers me like I’m not thirty-three, just her son on that third step, waiting for bad news and promising himself he’d keep her safe.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
She holds me tighter.
“Don’t you dare be sorry,” she murmurs into my hair. “I hate what he did. I hate that you had to see it. And I hate that it made you feel like disappearing was the only way to survive.”
She pulls back just enough to look at me.
“I missed you every day, Auggie,” she says. “Every single day. And now that I know why? That man will never step foot in this home again. He’s been gone from my heart for a while. Now he’ll be gone from my life.”
She turns toward the window, just for a second. “You know what hurts?” she adds quietly. “Not that he did it. But that I brought him into your world. I let him sit at our table. I let him—” Her voice catches. “I should’ve known better.”
I stare at her. “You’re serious?”
She gives a sad, sharp smile. “I have been for months. I just didn’t have the last piece.”
Her thumb brushes my temple. “You gave it to me. And now I get to give something back.”
“What’s that?”
“Myself,” she says. “And you. You’ve always been my home, Auggie. Not him. Not that penthouse. You. You’re the whole damn book.”
My throat tightens, but she keeps going.
“And you know who reminded me of that?” she asks gently. “Harlee.”
She says her name like it matters. Because it does.
“I see you when you look at her,” she continues. “Not the guarded version. Not the executive. You. The boy who used to dance on my kitchen tiles with powdered sugar on his cheeks.”
I swallow.
“She saw through you in five seconds,” she smiles softly. “Didn’t she?”
“Yeah.”
“I like her,” she says. “Not just because she’s smart or thoughtful—or because she drinks her wine like it’s a science experiment—but because she brought you home. Not just to me. To yourself.”
I let the words settle.
“She’s not afraid of your darkness,” my mother says quietly. “That’s love. Showing up when someone shines—and when they sink.”
I nod. She’s right.
“She’s good for you, August,” she adds. “But more than that—you’re good with her. Softer. Braver. Still you. Just… whole.”
She brushes my hair back the way she used to when I couldn’t sleep.
“So don’t rush it,” she says. “Don’t ruin it trying to make it perfect. Just be real. That’s all she’s ever wanted.”
A quiet laugh slips out of me. For the first time all day, it’s real.
“Dios, Ma,” I murmur. “You’re gonna make me propose by accident.”
She stills, then smiles—soft and knowing.
“You say that like it’d be a mistake.”
I swallow.
It wouldn’t be.
She kisses my forehead. “I’m proud of you,” she says. “Not for the company. Not for coming home. For finally letting yourself feel. That’s real strength.”
She steps back, dusting flour from her sweatshirt, hands on her hips.
“Well?” she says. “Call my future daughter-in-law. The scones are cooling, and I made enough for three.”
I blink. “You sure?”
She arches a brow. “You just poured your soul out, and I still have enough love to feed both of you. Of course I’m sure.”
I pull out my phone, tapping Harlee’s name as I follow her back into the kitchen—sunlight spilling through the windows, sugar and lemon warm in the air.
And for the first time in a long time, I know exactly where I am.
Home.