Page 223 of Before We Were

I nod, grateful for her understanding even as reluctance weighs heavy in my chest. She slips inside, the porch light casting her in a warm glow before she disappears. The space between us suddenly feels sharp and electric, like a live wire exposed. I stare at the closed door, gathering courage, before heading to the kitchen.

The quiet clink of glass leads me forward. Mom stands at the counter, dark liquid swirling in her glass, shoulders curved inward like wilting petals. She looks small. Fragile. The sight twists something deep in my gut.

"Mom?" My voice barely disturbs the air.

She startles, quickly wiping tears from her eyes as if erasing evidence.

"Nate," she says, voice thick with emotion. "I didn't hear you come in."

Ignoring the wine glass, I step closer, studying her face. "You okay?"

She releases a shaky breath, avoiding my gaze as she pushes a stack of papers toward me. "I, um…" Her voice catches, and she forces herself to meet my eyes. "They're officially signed."

The weight of those words hits me slowly. The divorce. After years of being chained to Dad's toxic presence, she's finally broken free. Pride and relief war with a complicated knot of emotions I can't name. I pull out a chair, the wood scraping against tile as I lean forward.

"Mom… I'm sorry about what I said??—"

"No, you had every right to be mad, Nate. I should have done more. You were just a little boy and??—"

I reach over to grab her trembling hand. "Mom, I love you," I say, keeping my voice steady but gentle, even as my heart thunders against my ribs. “And I’m proud of you. It's a step forward. You did the right thing."

Her lips tremble, composure cracking like thin ice.

"I should've done it sooner," she whispers, voice splintering. "For you and Jake. For me. But I didn't, Nate. I didn't, and I'm so sorry. For all of it."

She drops her gaze to her trembling hands, and something shifts beneath my feet—like the ground I've been standing on isn't as solid as I thought. I lower my head so I’m at eye level with her. When she tries to look away, I take her hands in mine, holding them tight enough to stop their shaking.

“Stop," I say firmly, though my chest constricts with each word. "You did the best you could with what you had. You gave us everything you had to give."

Tears well in her eyes, and she opens her mouth to argue, but I press on, my voice softening like a wave reaching shore.

“You weren't a shitty wife. He was a shitty husband. That's on him—not you. You didn't deserve any of the things he put you through."

Her face crumples, and the tears come—quiet but heavy, like rain on windowpanes. I pull her into my arms, holding her as years of guilt and pain pour out. She clings to me, her sobs muffled against my shoulder. This shirt has absorbed more tears than a November rain, but I hold her tighter, becoming the shelter she's always tried to be for me.

The sobs gradually quiet, her breathing steadying though grief still hangs thick in the air. She pulls back slightly, wiping her tear-streaked face with unsteady hands.

"I waited so long because… I was scared, Nate," she confesses, voice barely above a whisper, fragile as moth wings. "I had nothing growing up—no one, until Kat. My biggest fear was losing the only thing that mattered to me. You and Jake. He threatened to take you both away, and I knew I couldn't fight him. You know him better than anyone. You've seen what he's capable of. I??—"

"Mom, stop." Her words knock the air from my lungs, and I grip her shoulders, steadying us both. My jaw clenches, rage simmering beneath my skin at the thought of what that bastard put her through. "You didn't lose us. And you won't. Ever. Do you hear me?"

She nods, drawing a shaky breath that seems to rattle in her chest.

"I need to ask you something," she says after a moment, her eyes searching mine like she's trying to read a story written in water. "And I want you to be honest with me."

Tension coils in my muscles, my heart drumming a warning beat.

"Okay."

"The drugs," she says carefully, each word carrying the weight of sleepless nights and unanswered prayers. "Have you really stopped?"

I exhale slowly, fingers raking through my hair as memories of darker days flash through my mind like lightning in a storm.

"I haven't touched anything in weeks," I admit, the truth both bitter and sweet on my tongue. "Since the beginning of summer."

Her shoulders sink with relief, but the words aren't finished clawing their way out of my chest. That night flashes through my mind with brutal clarity—the fear in Nora's eyes when she saw what I'd become. That look, like I was a stranger wearing familiar skin. It gutted me. Left a wound I never want to reopen.

"I almost slipped up after Dad showed up here,” I confess, my voice dropping to match the heaviness in my chest. "Nora stopped me."

---