Page 152 of Loving the Tormentor

I have no understanding of what he means, but I don’t ask, too focused on trying to put one foot in front of the other. But I don't miss it when I see it. Or ratherher.

My heart sinks, my breath stolen from my lungs. This is…impossible.

She's exactly the same, just with more years and Botox. Her brown eyes were never warm, despite being as wide as mine. It should give her some innocence, but they're still glacial to this day. Her hair is in a tight French chignon at the back of her head, with two strands falling on either side of her face. It used to be a deep brown like mine, but it's almost white-blonde now, bleached and dyed. Around her neck, she wears a short silver necklace with a lotus flower falling in the hollow of her neck.

My mother stands next to Eugene Duval with a straight back, shoulders squared, and a tilted chin, showing the arrogance she feels toward the people around her. Yet her behavior is meek when his hand travels up and down her back.

There isn't a word that could possibly come out of my mouth in this instant. Moments of my childhood are flashing through my mind. The way she’d put my plate of food on the table, practically throwing it there. The smell of the expensive perfume she'd stolen at the mall on the South Bank. And the look of disgust in her eyes the day she told us she was leaving.

She didn't sneak out or pretend to go to the grocery store. She took time to pack a bag while my father begged her to stay and pretended he was going to change. I watched it all with my lion teddy in one hand and my thumb in my mouth.

You're too old to suck your thumb, Nyx. It's ridiculous.

I remember her saying that to me all the time.

I jumped the steps of our trailer when she stepped outside. I held on to her leg when she started walking through the dirt road. She looked back at me, her little girl muddy and quiet. I didn't beg, but I wrapped myself tightly around her body.

Let go. You're dirty and disgusting.

My dad is the one who picked me up, and all I can feel now is embarrassment that I tried to hold on to someone who never deserved my love. But I didn't know so well back then. My dad might be a terrible man, but addiction is a disease. My motherleft us knowing full well what she was doing. She was of healthy body and mind. Shechoseto abandon us.

It's Achilles tightening his hand at the back of my neck that brings me back to reality.

I wonder how long I was stuck in my own past. It looks like we've been introduced to the crowd already, and I was out of it the whole time. It must have made perfect sense for my role as a Hera. Behind us, people are talking again. I'm pretty sure I hear moaning too, but I don't dare turn around. My eyes stay on my mother. Catherine Mayer. Or I guess it's Catherine Duval now. All these years, she was a mere forty-minute drive away from me. Worse, she knows I was at SFU. I'm the recipient of her husband's scholarship.

"You'rereallygoing for family values this year, aren't you, Dad?" Achilles deadpans. "You get the mother, and you put the daughter in my way. And now look at us, a happy family. Let's not aim for any closer than that."

Eugene smirks. "As funny as ever, Son."

My mother doesn't say anything until Eugene taps her hip. "Catherine, say hello."

"Achilles, darling, how are you?" she says to her stepson. As warmly as an artificially intelligent robot who has learned from seeing how others act.

Her voice is different too, clearer, more articulate than I remember. Less raspy. Maybe she stopped smoking. Or maybe my memories are failing me. It's been so long.

I'm expectant, like a candidate in line for an audition, waiting for her moment. I keep a straight face, knowing exactly what my line is about to be. I’ve rehearsed it in my head.

"Welcome to our house, Nyx," she says simply, a smile as falsely welcoming as the one she offered Achilles still plastered on her face. But there's something in her voice.Pride.She’s telling melook. I made it. I got what I left you behind for.

"Hello, Mom," I say as casually as I promised myself. "I'm glad you got everything you wanted." It's not said in a sarcastic way. Instead, I take a cool tone straight out of Achilles's book.

I'm proud of myself, doing so well. Until…

"Nyx." She scoffs with all the disdain she can muster. "I'm not your mom."

I freeze at first, my brain short-circuiting so badly I think that maybe this isn't the woman who gave birth to me, and I called a random woman my mother.

Then reality hits me. The coldness of her heart, the hurt she's desperate for me to feel. The derision in her tone. My lungs turn to steel, and I blink at her as I feel tears filling my eyes uncontrollably.

Out of nowhere, I'm pulled out of water, given the possibility to survive this torturous moment by Achilles. It's discreet, caring in a way my mom could’ve never behaved toward me. At the back of my neck, his thumb caresses me to bring me back before he taps it against my skin.

I recognize the rhythm right away. It's the beginning of his concerto.My treasure.

I take a deep breath, practically choking under the emotions rushing through me.

"Of course." I nod. "Giving birth doesn't make someone a mom. It surely didn't make you one."

She rears her head back slightly, as if she's not the one who refused the title a second ago. Our conversation is cut short by a drunk woman in her underwear wrapping her arm around Catherine's waist.