Page 125 of Trailer Park Billionaire
“I considered telling you. But I didn’t want you getting your hopes up for someone who might not survive the year. Then at one point, I figured… if I could at least be near you. If I could give you something—anything. If I could at least try to make up for everything I had done, and missed. I had to try. So I got my degree. I got it faster than anyone ever had before. And?—”
“You built yourself a new life,” I whisper. “And hired me.”
“I didn’t,” she corrects, shaking her head. “HR did. I had no say in it. You got in on your own merits. I only set things in motion. I let your grandpa know about the job opening. And the moment they decided to hire you, and you walked through those museum doors, I was the happiest person on this miserable planet.”
She pauses then, her breath trembling.
“And when Ben showed up… in that ridiculous RV… I knew something was happening. Despite everything, despite your resistance, he made you laugh, Helena. Like a real laugh. Likewhen you were small and your dad would pretend to be your pony. I hadn’t heard that laugh in over two decades.”
She wipes her cheeks again.
“The brownies…” I throw in. “And the cookies, and cakes. You made those because Dad made them for me when I was little.”
My mom nods with a pained smile. “I did. Because I didn’t know how else to say I love you. I just hoped brownies would let you know that there was someone… someone in your corner.” She blows her nose into a tissue. “And that’s what I saw in him. In you, Ben. I saw you two in that fake prison at your grandpa’s funeral and I knew. So I looked into him. Found out the truth, some of it at least, and pieced together the bigger picture. What you two were doing. I didn’t understand it all, but I figured out enough. And I figured I had to help any way I could.”
“And so you…” I trail off.
“I made my choice,” she finishes, then leans in and whispers. “Because he loves you. And because I love you. And because I owe you. So I kept him from doing something stupid, and took the fall. He had told me what he was planning on doing, the tape, the forgery. I knew what the cops needed to find. So I made sure they did. After I knocked you out, I got the St. Clairs to talk, and I’ll give the court whatever I can once the trial comes. I’ll put them away for good.”
“But you didn’t have to,” I whisper. “You didn’t have to give up everything, everything you struggled for so hard.”
“I’m not giving up anything I care about, darling. The apartment, my job, my tantra class… there will be a new apartment, a new job, new hobbies once I get out. The only thing I care about is you, and I gave you up once before,” she says, her voice cracking. “This is me trying to make up for it, to right my wrongs. I know it’s not that easy, it’s not how this works, and I’mnot expecting you to forgive me for what I did, but this is all that I have, all that I can do.”
My throat closes. I lean forward, forehead pressed to her shoulder.
“I’m sorry I hurt you,” she murmurs. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. But I love you, Helena. More than anything in this world. More than my name. More than the life I built.”
I cry then. Properly. Not pretty tears. The kind that make your chest heave and your ribs ache. My mom pulls me into her, and, eventually, Ben wraps his arms around us both.
We sit like that—still, quiet, almost whole—for a long time. A family made from broken pieces. From stolen names. From second chances.
Eventually, the guard comes back and tells us that our time is up. So we stand and we hug again. My mom whispers something to Ben, something about keeping me safe.
He nods.
And as we leave, hand in hand, I look back at her one more time.
She’s smiling. Through tears. And so am I.
Some people may say life is like a blank canvas.
But I know better.
Really, it’s like a half-finished fresco. Covered in grime. Cracked and crooked. And if you’re lucky—if you’re really lucky—someone will hand you a brush and help you clean up the mess.
My fresco is still cracked, still crooked. The colors are still a mess. But for once, I’m not trying to restore what was. I’m painting something new. With him. With the person I love.
44
BEN
EPILOGUE
The new building still smells a little bit like fresh paint and the kind of hope that clings to new walls. It looms now where the trailer park once slumped. Now it’s a six-story monument to second chances, stubborn hope, and questionable funding. The bricks are warm red, the balconies already spilling over with greenery like a middle finger to the past, and the air carries the quiet hum of lives beginning anew.
“Just leave the it by the door,” Elaine huffs, dragging a rolling suitcase over the threshold of her new apartment. “I should rearrange everything myself anyway.”
“Right,” I say, sweating through my shirt and put down a heavy box, “because nothing says ‘fresh start’ like a herniated disc.”
