Page 62 of I Wish I Would’ve Warned You (Forbidden Wishes #3)

EMILY

T he sun is just beginning to dip behind the trees as I walk down my quiet block, the evening air crisp against my skin.

For once, there’s silence—no horns, no blaring televisions through cracked apartment windows.

Just the rhythmic crunch of my boots on the sidewalk and the soft rustle of wind through the bare branches.

Until I hear it.

“Emily?”

The voice freezes me mid-step.

Familiar. Frayed. The last voice I ever wanted to hear.

I think about pretending I didn’t hear it. About walking faster. But she says my name again, softer this time, and the ache in it makes me pause.

“I know you hate me,” my mother says, stopping a few feet behind. “I promise I won’t take up too much of your time.”

I don’t turn around.

Instead, I slide my key into the lock and push open the door to my apartment. I leave it open—not as an invitation, but an inevitability.

Her heels click slowly against the pavement, echoing too loudly in the stillness. When she steps inside and crosses into the light, I barely recognize her. The woman who used to be all glam and gloss—blond curls teased high, lipstick like war paint—is gone.

She’s in gray sweatpants and a faded purple T-shirt. No makeup. No armor.

“Where’s Mr. Dawson?” I ask flatly, not moving from where I stand.

“I’ve told you—we’re not together anymore,” she says. “I came here alone.”

“You can leave alone, too.” I nod toward the door. “Please lock it on your way out.”

“No.” Her voice is firmer now. “I came here to talk.”

“I don’t want to listen.”

“I couldn’t care less how you feel about me,” she says, breath catching, “but you’re going to give me the chance to say that I’m sorry.”

I stay quiet, arms crossed.

“I know I made a lot of mistakes as your mother,” she continues. “And honestly, I’ll probably make more. But I want to start over. I want to try being the mom you deserve. Please… give me one last chance.”

I say nothing. Her eyes are glassy. Her hands tremble.

“I’ve had a lot of time to think about things. Months, actually. Alone,” she whispers. “No boyfriends. No distractions. Just me and my mess. I started therapy. Real therapy. The kind where they don't let you lie to yourself.”

She wipes at her eyes. “Turns out I hurt you because I never knew how to love anyone properly—not even myself. That’s not an excuse, but... it’s the truth.”

“I moved into a little apartment two counties over,” she adds, her voice growing smaller. “I got a job at an event center that hosts weddings and concerts and birthday parties. I’m trying, Emily.”

“Stop, Mom.” My voice cracks. “Please, just... stop talking.”

She takes a breath, nods. Her face crumples with regret.

“Okay,” she whispers. “I’ll go. I’ll come back some other time and try again.”

“There’s no need to,” I say, stepping forward.

She freezes.

“I just needed to hear ‘all alone.’”

She opens her arms, and I walk into them. No more distance. No more pretending.

And for the first time in years, something inside me begins to shift. Not into forgiveness, not yet, but into something that feels possible.

Like maybe this is where healing starts.

Like maybe, just maybe, we can try again.