“When…I was little,” I begin, “I had sex because it made me feel like I was worth something. Because every time I was at home, I felt worthless.” My chin trembles. “I’m not trying to blame you. I take responsibility for everything I’ve done, but there was a piece of me that craved something…more. And I was desperately trying to find it.” I fiddle with my fingers. “Sex…made me feel better. Not whole. But better.”
I’ve rehearsed this speech a thousand times in my head. I’ve imagined her reaction a million different ways. Some indifferent. Others warm and apologetic. Standing here now, I wonder which one I’ll meet, which reality is mine.
Her eyes have reddened. “I don’t understand…” Her voice cracks. “I’m sorry.” I can’t tell if she’s apologizing for her confusion or more than that.
“You used to fawn over Poppy, Rose, and Daisy—”
“I thought you liked being with your father more,” she says, skimming a finger beneath her eye, skillfully not smudging her mascara. “He loved taking you to Fizzle’s offices, and Loren was your best friend…We gave you so much. It doesn’t make sense to me. I’m sorry, Lily.”
Water drips down my cheeks. Maybe our perceptions of our lives are too disjointed to ever fit together. Maybe we all think too differently to bridge at a common point. “Do you love me?” I ask.
She suddenly steps closer. And hugs me. Like a motherly embrace that I’ve seen her share with Daisy all the time. The one where she wraps her arms around me, placing a hand on my back. Her lips are near my ear as she says, “I’ve always loved you, Lily. You’re my daughter.” She draws back and brushes my tears away, careful to not poke me with her manicured nails. “I’m sorry if I didn’t show it in the way you wanted…”
It’s a backhanded apology, but one I cherish very much. Partly because I know it may be all I ever receive. “Can you stop punishing me for my mistakes?” I ask her, the avalanche of silent tears starting up again. “Please?”
She’s crying. Her hand falls, and she’s no longer attempting to dam her waterworks. She nods tensely. “You were always so shy when you were little…I thought it was better to let you be.”
“I just wanted to know that you cared.”
“I do care about you,” she says strongly, touching her chest. “I’m sorry…for things I may have said in the past. I was hurt…” She has this look in her eye that says: I want things to be different. I do too. For so long I’ve wanted that. But we’ve both just never confronted each other until now.
Years.
It took years for this moment to occur.
She strokes my short hair and asks, “What can we do to make this better?” Her arm is still around me. She sniffs loudly, something unladylike. But I’ve never seen my mother cry this much. I think all this time, we’ve just been viewing the same story through opposite lenses. My picture wasn’t hers. And even now, we’re not seeing exactly the same portrait, but at least it’s in the right frame.
That has to be enough. “I need to know that you’ll treat my son the way you treat Rose’s daughter. No favoritism.” That’s what I want most of all. “Is that possible?”
I wait for her answer with more hope in my heart than I’ve ever had before.
{ 46 }
LOREN HALE
I press my ear against the oak door, shoving Rose in the shoulder as she tries to wedge past me. I rushed downstairs when Connor told me that Lily was having “the” talk with her mom.
Their voices have quieted, barely audible through the wood. “Fuck,” Ryke curses as Rose elbows him in the ribs.
“Shhh, I can’t hear the rest,” Rose hisses.
“Children,” Connor says from the hallway. He leans against the charcoal-gray painted wall, watching the three of us fight for prime real estate against the door. “Patience is considered a virtue to some.”
Daisy sits on the ground beside him, eating a cherry popsicle as she watches us. “Just let Rose at the door, and she can translate for all of us.”
“We already tried that,” I remind Daisy. “She was terrible at it.” Rose delivered cliff notes half the time. And the other half, she didn’t even bother to relay the information.
Just as Rose opens her mouth to snap back, the door swings open. Samantha Calloway stands poised and rolls her eyes at the sight of us. It reminds me so much of Rose that I have to bite my tongue to swallow a retort. Comparing Rose to her mother, out loud, is a low blow that I’d like to avoid.