Page 171 of Before We Were

I laugh at her terrible attempt at hiding her crush. I’m happy to see her smiling the way she is.

"He's a good guy, Mom," I cut in, suddenly fierce with the need to protect this fragile happiness she's found. "A really good guy. If he makes you happy, don't let Ollie or me stand in your way."

Gratitude softens her expression. "He is. You have no idea how much it means to hear you say that." She tilts her head, reading me with that uncanny maternal insight. "Now, what's going on in that beautiful mind of yours?"

"Not much."

Lie of the century.

"One day, when you're a mother, you'll understand how we always know when our children are lying straight to our faces."

I fidget with my shirt hem, avoiding her knowing gaze. The truth sits heavy on my tongue, waiting to be spoken.

Finally, the words break free.

"I feel like I’m trapped in this cycle of pain, wanting to move forward but feeling like I can’t.” My voice cracks around the admission.

She reaches over, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear—a gesture so achingly familiar it nearly undoes me.

"I get it. God, do I get it," she says, voice gentle but firm. "Everything is hard in one way or another. Staying stuck is hard. Letting go is hard. Loving is hard. Losing is harder. Life is hard, but you get to choose what's worth risking and fighting for.”

Her words settle into the spaces between my ribs, filling the hollow places.

"No one is ever really ready to move on," she continues softly. "But when something—or someone—makes you feel alive again, it's worth risking everything to try. Love always carries the risk of loss. Always. But you can't let that fear keep you from living. I will always love your Dad, and there will be moments where I’ll miss him so much it hurts. But I know your father and what would hurt him more is if he knew we all stopped living our lives because he’s gone."

She’s right. I hear the echo of her own journey in those words, see it written in the quiet determination of her expression.

"Pain is inevitable, but suffering is a choice. You have to choose your hard Nora.”

Tears blur my vision as understanding dawns. She's right. I'm tired of being a prisoner to my grief, letting it dictate the boundaries of my world.

"I don't want to suffer anymore," I whisper.

Mom squeezes my hand, her smile tender. "Then don't. It's your life, honey. Take it back."

I might not know exactly what that looks like yet, but I know this: I'm done letting fear and guilt write my story for me.

CHAPTER52

FATHER FIGURE

NATE

April 2004

17 years old

The slammingdoor rips through the silence like a gunshot, jolting me awake. My heart slams against my ribs as the sound reverberates through walls so thin they might as well be paper. The familiar surge of adrenaline floods my system—a well-practiced dance with fear that leaves my fingertips tingling and my mouth desert-dry. His voice cuts through next, each word slurred and venomous, crashing together in a violent symphony of anger and something stronger than just whiskey.

Coke, maybe. Or pills.

These days, it's harder to tell what demon is riding him.

Mom's voice follows—soft, pleading, desperate. The sound makes my teeth ache. How many times have I heard this same scene play out, like some sick theatrical performance where we all know our parts but can't escape the stage?

The clock on my nightstand reads 01:58 AM, its red digits burning into my retinas like a countdown to chaos.

A wave of relief washes over me as I remember the one blessing in this nightmare: Jake isn't here.

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