Page 94 of I Saw Her First

“Dahlia.”

There’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time. It hits me like a punch to the stomach, and I suck in a breath.

What am I doing here?

“Er, hi… Mom.” I consider correcting her—telling her that’s no longer my name—but I can’t get the words out.

She blinks again, fussing with the collar of her shirt. My mother has always worn immaculate button-down shirts, despite never having a job. In the seven years I’ve been away, she hasn’t changed. Her shoulder-length hair is still dyed a dark brown—it started going gray years ago, but she’d never admit that to anyone—and her brown eyes have a few more creases around them, but she’s the same woman I remember.

The same woman who could never be the mom I needed her to be.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, clearly flummoxed.

That’s understandable. I’m a little flummoxed myself.

“I, uh, I’ve taken a few days off work. Thought I’d… visit.”

“Right.” She glances over her shoulder, then back at me. “Your father isn’t home from work yet.”

I nod. Of course—it’s late afternoon on a Monday. He’ll be home in an hour or so.

“That’s okay,” I say, shifting the weight of my bag. “I can see him later.”

Her thin brows snap together in a frown. “You’re not wanting to stay for dinner, are you? I wasn’t expecting guests, and I have book club tonight.”

Guests.

I press my eyes shut in frustration.

Seven years. It’s beenseven yearssince I’ve said two words to this woman, and all she can think about is whether I’m going to mess with her evening plans.

“I’m not hungry,” I mumble, wondering if it’s too late to get a bus back to the city. What was I thinking, coming here? Did I really believe things would be different?

“Well…” Mom wrings her hands, as if someone’s put her in a difficult position. “I guess you’d better come in.”

I follow her inside, noting how the interior of the house hasn’t changed at all. The wallpaper looks tired and dated, but as we enter the kitchen, I notice they’ve redone the countertops. My mother glances around the kitchen, hands fluttering anxiously as if she doesn’t know what to do with them, then she snatches her cellphone from the counter.

“I have to make a quick call,” she tells me, pulling her lips into a tight smile. She waves vaguely at nothing in particular. “Make yourself at home.”

I try not to laugh at the irony of this as she heads out of the room.

Dumping my bag on the counter, I sink onto a stool. I glance at my own phone and notice a missed call from Weston, but shove it back into my pocket with a sigh. Mom’s voice drifts down the hall and I lean closer to the door, trying to catch her words.

“…completely out of the blue… no idea what she… home… yes, now please…”

My head drops into my hands and I blow out a long breath. I don’t know what I was expecting from my mother. A smile, maybe? Some pleasure at seeing me? Would it be so ridiculous as to go so far as to expect a hug, even?

Clearly.

“That was your father,” Mom says, breezing back into the kitchen. “He’s on his way.”

“Oh.” I shift my weight. “You didn’t have to…”

“Nonsense.” She waves a hand. “I didn’t know how long you were staying, and he’d hate to miss you.”

I find that hard to believe.

Mom sets her phone down, eying me. “How longareyou staying?” she asks casually.

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