Reagan,
I meant what I said the other night. I’m sorry that I haven’t always been the mother you wanted me to be. I have dreamt of having a daughter just like you since I was little. When I found out I was pregnant, it was one of the best days of my entire life. You moved around all the time. Kicking me, punching me right in the ribs. Everyone was convinced you were a little boy, even your dad. But I knew you were my Reagan. I knew you were a little fighter. I could feel your strength every day and, watching you grow up, I see it in your actions. Not just your physical strength, but the way you fight for people and help them. The way you stand up for what you believe in, no matter what anybody else may think. You are the strongest woman I’ve ever met.
You were right. This life is a selfish one and I haven’t always put your needs first. Maybe I should have chosen when you were just a hope and a prayer in my heart. I didn’t anticipate how being a mother and a Black Angel would affect you and for that I’m so sorry. But just know if I had to go back and choose, every single time, I would choose you.
I want you to live your life for you. So if being a Black Angel is not what you want, then please, find your dream. If your dream is to be a doctor, then go be the best doctor in the world. If your dream is to get married and have children, go be the best wife and mother in the world. I have no doubt that you will be.
I’m sorry that your life has never been normal and we’ve put you in so much danger. I wish I could go back in time and redo my life so that you never had to feel scared. Not for a single second.
Always know how much I love you and how proud I am of the young woman you are. The world is expecting some big things from you, Reagan Elizabeth Hillis.
Love you always,
Mom
A tear runs down my cheek and splatters on her signature, making the ink expand. I quickly wipe it away so the ink won’t run and ruin the letter but it’s too late. The word Mom smears across the page, leaving a trail of hazy blue rivers.
My eyes stare blankly at random words in the letter. Life. Danger. Love. Mom. The adrenaline that’s been pumping through my body for the last hour begins to fade and the guilty knot in the pit of my stomach pulses. The guilt and pain and fear I’ve been trying to ignore radiates through my body and every muscle, every bone begins to splinter.
“Reagan?” Luke says from the door. I open my eyes and look up at him, my knees still to my chest, the letter still in my hand. When he sees my red eyes, his face drops. “What is it?”
“My mother left this in my room.” I fight to stand up and hand him the letter. He takes it from me and reads as I rip the knife from behind my headboard and stuff it into my go-bag.
I stare out the window at the Weixels’ tire swing spinning gently in the wind. My fingers instinctively reach for the charm on my left wrist. Her bracelet. I press down on the sterling silver, wishing the double hearts held magic powers.
“I never got to say it,” I say without turning around. I look down into my bag, repositioning my Glock pistol and bulletproof vest.
“Say what?” His voice drops, the way it always does when he knows exactly what I’m talking about.
“I never got to say I’m sorry,” I answer and stuff an extra sweatshirt into my bag with so much force, the bed bounces beneath my weight. “I said some horrible things to her. Just horrible. I basically told her she was a bad mother. That she was selfish and should never have even had me. And you know what. She’s not the selfish one. I am.”
“You are the furthest thing from selfish,” Luke replies. I feel the heat of his body as he inches toward me. “That is the last word I would ever use to describe you.”
“If I wasn’t selfish, I would want to do this job. I’d just deal with all the bad stuff that comes with it.”
“Reagan, this is an incredibly dangerous life. Look at what’s happening right now. You have the right to choose.”
“I just want them back, Luke,” I say, my voice on the edge of trembling. “This is my fault and I’ll do anything to…”
“Listen to me,” Luke says, grabbing my shoulders and slowly turning me around. “This is not your fault. You’ve got to stop doing this to yourself because you’ll be no good to anyone.”
A cold sigh presses through my even colder lips and I nod to appease him. But I don’t know how I’m going to stop blaming myself. A silver sterling picture frame on my nightstand catches my eye. Mom has her arms around my shoulders and is smiling for the camera. I’m looking up at her and laughing. Dad snapped the picture out on our back patio this summer. We built a fire in the fire pit, roasted marshmallows, and stayed up late, just talking about nothing. It was a perfect night.