Chapter 6
The first few months of our new life were strange.
We moved out of the big house. Sold it. Bought a smaller one, not too far from Grandma. It had a backyard with an old oak tree. My bedroom was painted yellow, just like I'd always wanted.
My mother kept her distance.
The restraining order meant she couldn't come near us. She couldn't call. She couldn't text. She couldn't show up at my school.
At first, I was scared she'd break the rules. I'd lie awake at night, listening for her car. Waiting for her to pound on the door.
But she never came.
David had been right about the money. Most of it was recovered. My father got back almost everything she'd stolen. Enough to buy the new house. Enough to start over.
My father changed too.
He quit his old job. The one that kept him traveling all the time. He opened a small shop downtown. Sold woodworking things. Tables. Chairs. Cutting boards. Things he made with his own hands.
He was home every night. He came to my soccer games. He helped me with my homework. He learned to cook.
He was happy. Really happy. For the first time in my life, I saw my father smile like he meant it.
I made new friends at my new school. Friends who didn't know about the drama. Who liked me for me.
I joined the art club. I discovered I was good at drawing. I painted pictures of the oak tree in our backyard. Of Grandma's garden. Of my father working in his shop.
Life was good.
But then, six months after the divorce, something happened.
My father got a phone call.
It was the hospital.
My mother had been in a car accident.
She'd been drinking. She'd driven her car into a tree. She was alive, but barely. She had no one else. No family who would take responsibility for her. Her parents were gone. Her brother wanted nothing to do with her.
The hospital had found my father's number in her emergency contacts.
He sat on the couch, staring at his phone.
"I don't know what to do," he said to Grandma and me. "She's my ex-wife. I hate what she did. But she's still... she was part of my life for fifteen years."
Grandma was firm.
"You don't owe her anything," she said. "She tried to destroy you. To destroy Lily."
"I know," he said. "But what if she dies? And I didn't even go see her? What kind of person does that make me?"
I thought about it.
My mother had been terrible to me. She'd hurt me in ways I'd probably never fully heal from. But she was still my mother. The woman who'd given birth to me. Who'd held me when I was little.
"Maybe we should go," I said, quiet.
My father looked at me, surprised.
"Are you sure, baby?" he said. "You don't have to. Not after everything she did."
"I know," I said. "But... what if it's the last chance? I don't want to wonder for the rest of my life if I should have said goodbye."
He nodded.
"Okay," he said. "We'll go. Together."
The hospital smelled like antiseptic and sadness.
My mother was in a room by herself. She looked small in the bed. Bruises covered her face. Her arm was in a cast. Machines beeped around her.
She was awake when we walked in.
Her eyes fluttered open. She saw my father first. Then me.
Tears filled her eyes.
"You came," she whispered.
My father stood by the door. He didn't move closer.
"The hospital called," he said, his voice neutral. "You had us as emergency contacts."
She looked at me.
"Lily," she said, her voice breaking. "I'm so sorry. For everything. I was wrong. I was so wrong."
I didn't say anything. I just stood there, looking at her.
"I know I don't deserve your forgiveness," she said. "I know I hurt you. Both of you. I was selfish. And stupid. And I lost everything that mattered."
She tried to sit up, winced in pain.
"I don't expect you to take me back," she said. "I don't expect anything. I just needed you to know. I'm sorry. Especially to you, Lily. You didn't deserve any of it. You're a good girl. A wonderful girl. And I failed you."
Tears ran down her face, mixing with the bruises.
"I was so angry at myself," she said. "At what I'd become. And I took it out on you. That was wrong. So wrong."
She looked at my father.
"You were a good husband, Marcus," she said. "A good man. I just couldn't see it. I was too busy wanting more. And now I have nothing."
The room was quiet except for the beeping of the machines.
My father spoke first.
"I don't know if I can forgive you," he said, honest. "Not yet. Maybe not ever. But I'm glad you're alive. And I hope you get better. I hope you find a way to be happy."
She nodded, crying harder.
Then she looked at me.
"Can you ever forgive me?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
I thought about all the pain. The slap. The blame. The way she'd looked at me with hatred. The way she'd threatened me at school.
But I also thought about the woman in the bed. Broken. Defeated. Alone.
"I don't know," I said, truthfully. "Maybe someday. But not today."
She closed her eyes. More tears escaped.
"That's fair," she whispered.
We stayed a few more minutes. We didn't say much. My father asked the nurse about her condition. She was going to live. She'd have a long recovery, but she'd be okay.
As we walked out of the hospital, my father put his arm around me.
"How do you feel?" he asked.
I thought about it.
"Strange," I said. "But... lighter, somehow. Like a weight I didn't know I was carrying got a little smaller."
He squeezed my shoulder.
"I know the feeling," he said.
We got in the car. Drove home. To our small house with the yellow bedroom and the oak tree in the backyard.
And for the first time since that terrible day in the bedroom, I didn't feel angry at my mother.
May you like
I just felt... sorry for her.
And that, I realized, was the first step toward truly letting her go.
