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She couldn’t come live with Emmaline. Not with the baby there. Not when Mom had episodes that turned violent, lashing out in confusion, once throwing a ceramic angel across the room because she thought it was watching her sleep. But that wasn’t the only reason. Emmaline’s apartment was up a narrow flight of stairs, no elevator, no extra bedroom, no budget for a nurse. And if we’re being honest? Emmaline didn’t have it in her. She was barely holding herself together. Adding a baby and a mother with a fading mind to the mix would crack her in half.
And me?
I was here. In Charleston. Drinking champagne in silk. While everything I loved burned down without me.
The guilt was so loud, it made my ears ring.
I climbed the narrow stairs above Liquid Courage and unlocked the door to my apartment with shaking fingers. The wood groaned as I stepped inside.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
Then I heard it. A soft snore.
I frowned, toeing off my shoes as I crossed the room.
There, curled up in my bed like she belonged, was my sister.
Emmaline’s face was slack with sleep, one hand tucked beneath her chin, hair fanned across my pillow. Her suitcase sat in the corner, half-unzipped. A battered tote bag slumped beside it.
I stood frozen in the doorway, heart thudding.
I didn’t know whether to feel comforted or invaded.
She hadn’t told me she was staying. But maybe she hadn’t meant to. Maybe she hadn’t known where else to go.
I wrapped my arms around myself and sank down onto the edge of the sofa, staring at the woman in my bed who had oncebraided my hair and told me stories when Mom was too tired to pretend.
Emmaline. The responsible one. The fixer.
She looked younger in sleep. Softer. Like the years hadn’t carved so many sharp edges into her spine.
And all I could think was:I could make this better.
I could ask Elias. One call. One word. One surrender.
But what would that cost? What part of me would I be selling?
The memory of the silk dress still clung to my body like it was mocking me. Beautiful. Expensive. Not mine.
I stared at the woman sleeping in my bed and thought,What if it’s not about earning anymore? What if it’s about choosing?
Even then, I didn’t know the answer.
All I knew was that the weight of love—real, complicated, broken love—was heavier than any guilt money could buy. The weight of it didn’t just press on my chest—it hollowed me out from the inside, like something gnawing through bone.
All this time, I’d told myself my recklessness was freedom. That my cliff dives and rooftop parties and tequila-drenched decisions were rebellion. That the rush, the chaos, the danger—they made me feel alive.
But maybe that wasn’t it.
Maybe I was just trying to outrun reality. Outrun the calls from Emmaline I let go to voicemail. The voicemails I couldn’t bring myself to listen to because I already knew what they said.
Mom’s slipping. Mom’s in danger. Mom will be out with no place to go if we don’t do something.
Maybe every wild thing I did was just me trying to forget that my mother—the woman who once danced in the kitchen with powdered sugar on her nose—couldn’t even remember my name some days. That she looked through me now, not at me. That herface, once so animated, now sagged with confusion more often than recognition.
And no matter what I did—no matter how fast I ran, how high I climbed, how hard I tried to disappear—I couldn’t escape that.