Page 14 of His Orders

“Ivy,” she exhales, voice light, a little rushed, as if she’s been waiting for me to pick up. “You’re still awake?”

“Could say the same about you,” I murmur, rubbing a hand over my eyes.

“I just got off the phone with the lawyers,” she says, launching straight into the conversation without preamble. “It’s exhausting, you know? Going over every little detail of a life you spent decades building, only to have it pulled apart piece by piece.”

I stay silent, letting her talk. She doesn’t expect me to answer. I’m not even sure she wants me to. This isn’t a conversation. It never really is. It’s more about her needing to say things outloud, to unload everything swirling in her mind, while I play the part of a patient audience. It’s always been this way.

I listen, but my mind drifts, pulled backward by a memory that sneaks in through the cracks.

I must have been seven, maybe eight, standing at the edge of the grand dining room in a dress that itched at my collarbone. My mother sat at the head of the table, laughing, her champagne glass poised just so, surrounded by friends with perfect hair and perfectly curated lives. My father leaned back, effortlessly charming, holding court in the way he always did.

The dining room was polished to a quiet shine, the glow from the chandelier casting soft halos over linen-draped tables. Plates were set just so, knives and forks untouched until the right moment. Ice swirled lazily in highball glasses, the soft chime of it knocking against the rim blending with laughter that rose and faded like background music, smooth and unhurried. Everything was effortless, everything in its place, and none of it included me.

I had spent all afternoon making something—a painting, a mess of colors that didn’t quite make sense, but to me, it was important. It was a gift for them, something to make them see me.

I remember standing there, small fingers gripping the edges of the paper, waiting for a moment to speak. My mother’s laughter rose again, my father poured another drink, and I waited. And waited.

Drew found me before they did. He was eleven, already used to reading the room, already familiar with the particular brand of absence that came with our parents’ presence. He looked at thepaper in my hands, then back at me, his mouth pressing into a knowing line. Without a word, he took my masterpiece and pinned it to the fridge with a magnet, like that was where it belonged all along.

“Come on, Ivy. Let’s go.”

And just like that, I let him pull me away, abandoning my place in a world that had no room for me.

We looked out for each other. We had to. No one else was going to.

Now, sitting here, my mother’s voice filling the space between us, I feel the familiar ache of that little girl still waiting to be noticed. But I know better now.

“I don’t think your father understands,” she continues. “How much I’ve done, how much I gave up. I put everything into making sure you and Drew had a life full of opportunity, full of…” She exhales sharply, frustration bleeding through the words. “I just don’t think it’s fair, Ivy. That I have to explain why I want something for myself now.”

I shift in bed, my grip on the phone loosening. “You don’t.”

She pauses. “What?”

“You don’t have to explain,” I say, softer now. “You don’t have to justify wanting a life of your own. If you feel unloved, if you feel unseen, you have the right to walk away from what doesn’t serve you.”

There’s a beat of silence. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter. “It’s not that simple.”

“I know.” I close my eyes, pressing my fingers against my temples. “But you’re doing it nonetheless, Mom. All I’m saying is you don’t need to justify the why of it all to me because I get it.”

“Thank you.”

She can’t see my smile, so I keep my voice light, offering a quiet, “No problem,” before ending the call.

I set my phone down, staring at the ceiling, my mind still tangled in her words. The weight of the conversation lingers, pressing into my chest, but exhaustion is finally creeping in, my limbs heavy, my thoughts sluggish.

A few moments later, common sense finally shoves its way to the front of my mind, reminding me that if I don’t get some sleep, I’ll wake up feeling like I got hit by a small but determined truck. With a sigh, I throw myself under the blankets.

The sheets are cool against my skin, the quiet hum of the night settling around me. I shift, trying to get comfortable, but the ache in my chest refuses to fade. My body remembers too much—Ethan’s hands, his mouth, the way he had looked at me in the dark. I force my eyes shut, exhaling slowly, willing sleep to take me before my thoughts can unravel any further.

It comes eventually, pulling me under in slow waves.

I wake up tangled in sheets that aren’t mine, in a bed that smells faintly of lavender and old books. For a second, I forget where I am, caught between sleep and memory, my mind hovering in the space where dreams linger before reality slams them into the ground.

Then I remember last night.

My pulse stirs, but I force myself to stretch, to breathe, to act like my body doesn’t still hum from what we did. The golden light spilling through the curtains is soft, warming the wooden floors, but it does nothing to ease the restlessness creeping into my chest. I exhale sharply and push the blankets aside, rolling my shoulders as I sit up.

A cup of sweet milk tea. That’s what I need. Something strong enough to wake me up, hot enough to burn away the lingering taste of recklessness.

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