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“You’re stronger for it.” Mom’s eyes soften, a real smile appearing on her lips. “Everything I did made you stronger.”
My throat closes up. “No. It broke me.”
“You are strong. I know you’ll be fine.” Her eyes flick between mine, then briefly over my shoulder. “Because you take after me. Doing what you have to to survive.”
I stare at her, this woman who gave birth to me, who I’ve spent my whole life trying to please. Every purge, every binge, every moment of self-hatred, they all trace back to her. To that night in the garage. To the choice she forced on me.
“You’re insane,” I say.
“And you’re everything I wanted you to be.” Her hand drops. “Do you love me?”
Eight-year-old me would have said yes without hesitation. She loved her mother unconditionally.
But now?
I look at her perfectly manicured nails, her immaculate silk robe, the gold necklace Dad gave her when Mykel was born. Her symbol of finally belonging.
“You made me like you,” I whisper. “Broken. Unable to eat. Unable to trust.” Her gift to me.
She beams at me like I’ve given her a compliment. “We’re survivors, darling.”
Survivors. Is that what we are? Or are we just broken people breaking others? I think of Anne, of Harry, of Clara’s kindness, of the lives destroyed that night. Of Brandon, trying so hard to help me heal while he gets destroyed in the process.
The truth burns in my throat.
I do love her.
That’s the worst part. Even knowing what she did, even seeing how she shaped me into this damaged version of herself, some part of me still craves her approval. Still wants to make her proud. Still wants to be loved by her.
And I hate myself for it.
A laugh bubbles up, hysterical and raw.
“Naomi, please. Say something.”
I stare at my hands. “I don’t know how not to love you.”
“I need you to forgive me.” She reaches for them. “For everything.”
The pieces click into place. This whole conversation, the vulnerability, the confessions, and the ‘please’, wasn’t about me at all.
It was about her.
Her guilt.
Her conscience.
Her need for absolution.
I jerk my hands away. “That’s what this is about? You don’t care what keeping that secret did to me. You just want to clear your conscience.”
“I’m trying to make things right.”
“Anne lost her mother. Her brother. I can barely eat without throwing up. And you want to make it right with a midnight confession?”
“I’m your mother. Don’t I deserve forgiveness?”
“The only one who can give you forgiveness is Anne.” I clench my fists. “Not me. Not Dad. Not even God himself. Only Anne.”