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"Because I was a coward," she says simply. "I was afraid of losing everything—him, this life, you girls. So I convinced myself his way was right. That the success was worth the pain." She shakes her head. "It wasn't. It never was."
I don't know what to do with this confession, this too-late truth. Part of me wants to embrace her; another part wants to scream that love without action isn't love at all.
"I don't expect forgiveness," Mom says, reading my expression. "I just needed you to know."
I feel my chest twist as I look at my mother—really look at her—for perhaps the first time. The perfect mask she's worn my entire life has finally cracked, revealing the frightened woman beneath. My anger still burns but something else rises alongside it—understanding.
"All my life," I say, my voice unsteady, "all I wanted was for you to stand by my side. Just once." The words catch in my throat. "When he locked me in that practice room for missing a note in Paganini, when he told me I was worthless without the violin, when he pushed and pushed until I broke—I just needed you to say something. Anything."
Mom's shoulders shake as she begins to cry in earnest.
"I used to watch other mothers at my recitals," I continue, the memories flooding back. "The way they hugged their childrenafterward, win or lose. The pride in their eyes that had nothing to do with perfection."
Jessica squeezes Mom's hand, her own eyes wet with tears.
"I practiced until my fingers bled, won competitions, played in concert halls across the world—not for him, not even for myself. For you." My voice breaks. "Because I thought if I was perfect enough you'd finally protect me."
Mom reaches for me, hesitant. "Evelyn?—"
"But the thing is," I say, stepping forward, "I can't hate you. I've tried. God knows I've tried." I take a shuddering breath. "Because underneath all this pain and disappointment, I love you. I always have."
The admission feels like releasing a weight I've carried for decades. I'm not sure where these words are coming from—perhaps from the woman I'm becoming, the one who survived Ivan, who found her voice with Noah.
"I love you too," Mom says, her hand shaking as she reaches for mine.
I take it, feeling the softness of her skin against my callused fingertips. We stand there, connected by this fragile touch, the first honest moment between us in years.
"I don't know if we can fix this," I tell her truthfully. "I don't know if some things can be undone."
"I don't deserve a second chance," she says.
"Maybe not," I agree. "But I think I deserve the mother I always needed. It's not too late to try."
I step forward, closing the distance between us. Mom opens her arms and suddenly Jessica is there too, the three of us collapsing into each other. Mom's perfume—the same Chanel she's worn my entire life—fills my senses as I press my face against her shoulder. Her arms tighten around us and I feel her body shudder with silent sobs.
"I'm so sorry," she says against my hair. "I'm so sorry."
For a moment we're just three women holding each other up, years of silence and pain flowing between us like an electric current. It's not forgiveness—not yet—but it's a beginning.
A sound from downstairs breaks the moment.
We pull apart, suddenly alert. Heavy footsteps move across the marble foyer, followed by muffled voices.
"Did Dad call someone?" Jessica asks.
Mom's face goes pale. "He's at the club until seven."
My heart pounds as I recognize the cadence of those footsteps—too deliberate, too searching. Not the casual stride of someone who belongs here.
"The security system?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"Your father changed the code last week," Mom says, her voice tight with fear. "I don't know the new one."
The footsteps grow louder, moving up the grand staircase now. Multiple pairs. At least three people.
I reach for my phone, fingers trembling as I pull up Noah's number. My mind races—Franco and his partner should be outside. Did they miss something? Were they compromised?
"We need to get out," I say, pressing the call button. "Now."