Page 188 of Sins of the Hidden

"I-I'm sorry," I whispered, not entirely sure what I was apologizing for. For running away? For not telling them sooner? For existing at all?

"Don't you dare apologize," Dad said fiercely against my hair. "Not ever."

I turned to look at V, standing motionless behind me. His eyes held depths no one else could fathom—the kind that came only from surviving the unsurvivable. My hand reached toward him, needing his connection now more than ever.

V grabbed my hand, his movements calculated and purposeful. The others' gazes burned into us as he approached, this dangerous man who showed nothing to anyone but me.

I turned back to Mom, a question burning inside me that I'd been afraid to ask. "Would you..." my voice wavered, "would you be upset if I wanted to know more about Valerie? If I asked Dad about her sometimes?"

Mom's eyes welled with fresh tears, but her smile radiated love. She cupped my face in her hands, thumbs wiping away my tears. "Sweetheart, your father has kept every memory of her safe. She deserves to be remembered. And you deserve to know her."

Mom pulled me against her chest, her heartbeat steady against my ear like it had been when I was small. I closed my eyes, trying to imagine a woman I'd never known. Valerie had dreams, fears, maybe even plans for us. Now she existed only inmy blood, a whisper of what could have been—a ghost haunting a life I didn't know how to claim as mine.

With unsteady fingers, I opened the journal to a random page, her handwriting flowing across the page in flowery strokes:

My dearest baby,

Today I felt you kick for the first time. Such a tiny flutter, like butterfly wings against my ribs. Your father pressed his hand to my stomach for hours, waiting to feel it too. When he finally did, I saw something I'd never seen before—hope in his eyes. In this place where they try to kill everything beautiful, you're already fighting back. Already so strong. I wonder if you'll have my stubbornness or his quiet determination. Maybe both. I hope so. You'll need it.

They don't know we're planning to run. Don't know we've already named you in whispers when no one can hear. Not a number. Never a number. A name that means something. You are our Oakley. The tree that survived despite everything. Just like you will.

If you're reading this someday, know that whatever happened, whatever choices we had to make, you were loved. Completely. Desperately. With everything we had.

Always your mother,

Valerie

The journal slipped from my fingers, landing on the carpet between my feet. My knees gave out, body crumpling before my mind could catch up. I slid from the couch to the floor, landing hard on my knees, but I barely felt the impact. Dad moved from beside me on the couch to kneel on the floor, his hand hovering over my shoulder, uncertain whether his touch would be welcome.

Mom rushed from the couch where she'd been sitting beside Dad. "She wrote because she loved you enough to make sure you'd hear her voice, even if she couldn't be here to speak."

The sobs I'd been holding back broke free, years of confusion and hurt pouring out as I clung to the parents who had chosen me, fought for me, loved me through everything. All the barriers I'd built came tumbling down in that moment, leaving me exposed and vulnerable but finally, blessedly free.

We stayed like that for several long minutes, huddled together on the living room floor. Eventually, I wiped my tears with the back of my hand and looked up. My gaze found V, still standing nearby, observing the scene with calculated attention. His eyes met mine across the small distance, holding a look of assessment rather than emotion.

I gently pulled away from my parents' embrace and rose unsteadily to my feet. I crossed the room to V in halting steps. Without a word, I wrapped my arms around him, feeling his fingers close around mine. This small point of contact between us contained an entire language only we understood.

His arms circled my waist, fingers spreading wide across my back like he was trying to memorize the shape of me. When Ishifted, his grip tightened—not enough to hurt, but enough to keep me there.

We were opposite sides of the same wound—he hollowed out by trauma, me overfilled with it. Yet somehow, the empty spaces in me fit perfectly with the hard edges of him. Two broken pieces making something whole.

For so long, I'd carried my past alone, a weight too heavy for one person to bear. The shame, the guilt, the sorrow—all of it locked inside where no one could see. But here, surrounded by the people who loved me most in the world, I finally understood—some loads weren't meant to be carried alone.

I'd built my entire identity around being unwanted—the unwelcome burden, the reason for so much suffering. But what if that story was just another lie? What if I'd been desperately wanted all along—by Valerie who died for me, by Dad who lived for me, by Mom who chose me, by V who saw me as something worth protecting?

Hatred was just grief with nowhere to go.

V's hand tightened fractionally around mine as if he sensed the tectonic shift happening inside me. His jaw muscle flexed beneath the mask, a barely visible crack in his usual control, revealing a shared pain only I could recognize. His empty eyes held mine, not with emotion, but with recognition—he understood what it was to be made by other people's choices.

Mom and Dad stood together now near the couch, watching us. Dad's arm circled Mom's waist, drawing her against his side. I realized they were giving me space to process with V, recognizing something in our connection that I was only beginning to understand myself.

V's thumb traced across my back, the gesture saying more than words ever could. Across the room, Mom and Dad stood with fingers intertwined.

Maybe survival was never about choosing a single truth, but carrying them all. Letting every version of me live—even the ones born in fear.

I wouldn't face anything alone.

I was Oakley. A name chosen with love.

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