Page 79 of Stalk Me

“It’s real,” I correct her. “That’s what matters.”

We fall into silence, the gulf between us wider than the physical table that separates us. What do you say to a mother who never really mothered? To a woman who saw her child as an asset to be leveraged rather than a person to be loved?

“Why did you come here, Luna?” she asks finally, her voice softer, almost vulnerable. “You clearly don’t need anything from me. You’ve made that abundantly clear.”

The question gives me pause. Why did I subject myself to this visit? It’s not for closure—I found that in the courtroom, standing up to them both. It’s not for reconciliation—some bridges can’t be rebuilt once they’ve been burned so thoroughly.

“I came because I needed to remember,” I say at last.

“Remember what?” A hint of the old sharpness returns to her voice.

“What it costs to get free. What happens when power becomes more important than humanity.” I meet her eyes directly. “I need to see you here, like this, to remind myself that the cycle can be broken.”

Something shifts in her expression, a crack in the perfect mask she’s worn for as long as I can remember. “And have you? Broken it?”

For the first time in our conversation, there’s no calculation in her question; no angle is being played. Just a mother asking if her daughter has escaped the fate she herself couldn’t avoid.

“I’m trying,” I tell her honestly. “Every day, I have to make the choice not to become what you made me. Not to use people the way I was used. Not to see relationships as transactions.”

She nods slowly, her gaze drifting to the window where sunlight streams through the wire-reinforced glass. “Your grandmother—my mother—was like that too. Cold. Calculating. She saw me as an investment, not a daughter.” Her voice is distant, as if she’s speaking more to herself than to me. “I swore I’d be different, but…” She trails off, shaking her head.

The revelation shouldn’t surprise me, but it does—this glimpse of a cycle that extends back generations. My grandmother, whom I barely remember, passing her damage to my mother, who passed it to me.

“But you weren’t different,” I finish for her. “You were worse.”

She flinches as if I’ve slapped her, then nods once, the gesture almost imperceptible. “Perhaps I was.”

It’s not an apology—Eleanor Queen doesn’t apologize—but it’s the closest thing to acknowledgment I’ve ever received from her. The weight of her admission settles between us, neither reconciliation nor absolution, but a fragile moment of truth.

“I have to go,” I say, glancing at my watch. “I have dinner plans.”

“With Erik?” She can’t quite keep the curiosity from her voice.

“And friends,” I confirm, standing. “We’re celebrating. Erik’s brother and his fiancée are expecting their first child. We just found out yesterday.”

The news that Erik will be an uncle had filled our room with joy, Erik spinning me around the kitchen in celebration. The thought of a child born into love rather than obligation feels like hope personified.

My mother’s lips part slightly, perhaps remembering her own pregnancy, her own choices. “I see. Well. Congratulations to them.”

The guard approaches, signaling that our time is up. My mother stands, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her jumpsuit with the same gesture she once used on designer dresses.

“Luna,” she says as I turn to leave. “The book. Your foreword. Will you…” She hesitates. “Will you send me a copy when it’s published?”

The request catches me off guard. “Why would you want to read it?”

She looks down, a hint of color touching her pale cheeks. “I’d like to understand. What it was like. From your perspective.”

It’s such an unexpected display of interest that, for a moment, I don’t know how to respond. Is this manipulation or the first glimmer of genuine empathy? With my mother, it’s impossible to be certain.

“I’ll think about it,” I say finally.

She nods, accepting the non-commitment. As the guard leads her toward the door, she pauses, looking back over her shoulder. “You look like her, you know. My mother. The same strength in your eyes.” There’s something like pride in her voice, tinged with regret. “But you’re not her. And you’re not me. Remember that.”

With that, she’s gone, the door buzzing shut behind her. I stand there for a moment, absorbing her words. Was that her version of blessing my attempt to break free? Or a final attempt to bind me to the family legacy?

It doesn’t matter. My path is my own now, chosen with clear eyes and an open heart.

Outside the prison, spring sunshine bathes the visitor parking lot in golden light. Erik waits by his car, long legs stretched out in front of him as he reads something on his phone. He looks up as I approach, his face breaking into that smile that still makes my heart skip.

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