“What made you come back, Blaire?”
Swiftly, I raise my eyes, meeting her gaze. “I’m sorry it’s an inconvenience for you.” I stand up, getting myself ready to leave. “I should go. This was a bad idea.”
My mom grips my hand, stopping me. “No, don’t go. Not yet. I didn’t mean it like that, Blaire.”
I stare at her hand on my arm and remember the last time she ever touched me. It was a slap on the face. “When I was a little girl, all I ever wanted was to be held by you. To be loved by you. But that was then and this is now. Would you please remove your hand from my arm?”
She lets me go immediately, her eyes bearing naked pain. “We did you wrong, your father and I. My beautiful girl … What did we do to you?”
I don’t know whether to laugh in her face or throw myself down at her feet begging her to hug me and never let me go. Maybe both. Yes, definitely both. “You know what? I can’t do this right now.” I shake my head. “I need to think.”
My mom doesn’t stop me this time as she watches me grab my leather bag from the couch and stand on my feet. “How long will you be staying in town?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure.”
“Where are you staying?”
“At the Wiltmore.”
She stands up and walks over to me. As she approaches, I take the opportunity to notice the marks that time has left behind on her face. And time has been very kind to her. She’s still as beautiful as I remember her. Regal. Though there’s something very different about her. Something I can’t pinpoint. Softness?
“Why don’t you stay here? This is your home, after all,” she adds quietly.
I reach for the car keys. “Thank you, but no. I think I need to be alone tonight.”
“Would you like to do breakfast tomorrow?”
The refusal sits ready on my tongue, but I swallow it back. I came home in search of some closure, and closure I’m going to get. “Sure, I’d like that.”
I’m about to cross the threshold when my mom asks me to stop. I glance back, our eyes connecting. “You know what I regret the most, Blaire?” Her question comes out as a whisper.
“Yes?” I ask stiffly.
“When I left that first time, you were a little girl of barely six. You came running toward me, tears streaking down your pretty face. You hugged my waist so tightly as you begged me between sobs to take you with me, not to leave you behind. I watched you and felt my heart break. I regret not taking you in my arms and staying for you. But I couldn’t live with your father for another day. It was killing me.”
Anger boils inside me. Now she tells me that? Now? Twenty years too fucking late, Mom. “You know, Mom, have you ever stopped to think what it felt like to me—to your daughter—to watch her mother walk out of the house suitcase in hand, not even bothering to look back at her? What about me, Mom? Did it not matter to you that my heart was breaking, too?” My voice is rising, but I don’t give a shit. “You left Daddy and me behind. And Daddy only got worse after that.”
My mom’s beautiful blue eyes glaze over with tears. “I’m sorry, Blaire. I’m so sorry. I wish that I could go back in time and do it all over again.”
The fight gone out of me, I stare at my mom numbly. “I’m not sure that I can.”
The next morning, I meet with my mom at a small, quaint diner. She’s waiting for me when I arrive. At first, things are very tense. She doesn’t say much and neither do I. We sit staring at our hands or out the window, always avoiding each other’s eyes. The pain is still too tangible. The wounds that never quite healed bleed once more.
She breaks the silence. “Would you like more coffee?”
I look down at my mug, realizing for the first time that it’s empty. “Sure.”
She gets the attention of our waitress and asks for a refill. As the waitress brings the coffee pot over, my mom takes my hand in hers. I find myself torn between wanting to keep it there, relishing the feel of my hand in hers, or withdrawing it.
I keep it there.
“Blaire … there’s something that you need to know.”
I lift my face and our gazes meet. The tone of her voice rings warning bells in my head. “Yes? Does it have to do with Dad?”
She nods, squeezing my hand gently. “Your dad passed away two years ago.”
The restaurant begins to spin around me. I feel faint as everything becomes blurry. There’s an explosion of pain followed by utter grief and sorrow. I am too late, then.
“How did he die?” I manage to ask through the pain.
“It was a massive heart attack,” my mom says sadly.
“Were …” I pause, trying to swallow through the pain. “Were you with him?”