Page 8 of Broken Trails
“What do you mean you can’t?”
“I can’t…” I say slowly, “because I’m standing outside your house.”
There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end, followed by a muffled exclamation. Through the front window, I see the curtains twitch, and then there she is—my mum, phone pressed to her ear, staring at me like I’ve just risen from the dead.
“Oh my God,” she whispers into the phone. I hear my dad in the background, calling out, “Lorelai, what’s going on?”
“Surprise,” I say flatly, lifting my hand in a sarcastic little wave.
Mum’s mouth falls open as Dad appears behind her, confusion etched across his face.
“What do you mean? I thought things were going well. What happened?” My mother’s voice drips with concern. A brittle façade barely masking the judgement underneath. Because what she’s not saying—but I can hear loud and clear—is what did you do? Of course, in her eyes, I’m always the one to blame. Always the problem.
My patience thins to a thread. I don’t want to talk about Liam or the life I’ve left indefinitely behind—not here, not now. “Have you told him I’m here?”
She hesitates, thrown by my bluntness. “No, but I was going to—”
“Don’t.” My tone is firm, daring her to argue. “I’d rather he didn’t know. I don’t want him coming here. I need space. Time to think.” A lie. I’ve made my decision, and there’s no going back. Her lips purse, frustration flashing in her eyes, but she doesn’t push it. Instead, she looks around the room, the air thick with tension. Following her gaze, the familiar walls pull at memories I thought I’d buried. Birthday parties in the lounge. Late-night arguments over curfews. The comforting hum of the kettle boiling in the kitchen.
Nostalgia grips me, but it’s short-lived when my eyes land on Dad, seated in his usual spot, a walking stick propped against his chair.
My brow furrows. “What’s with the walking stick?”
Mum glances at him and sighs, exasperated. “He had a car accident two years ago. Some drunk driver hit him. If you’d been around, you’d know.” Her tone is loaded, each word a jab aimed straight at my chest.
My eyes widen. “A car accident? What happened?”
“It’s fine,” Dad says, waving it off like it’s no big deal. But I can see the weariness in his eyes. “I just haven’t been able to walk properly since. My knee took a hit, that’s all.”
Sadness swells, threatening to choke me. Dad’s always been this steady, quiet force in my life, the calm to Mum’s chaos. Seeing him like this—fragile—is a punch to the gut.
“You okay, love?” he asks gently, his calm voice a stark contrast to Mum’s bristling energy.
“I’m fine, Dad.”
“Fine?” Mum cuts in with a tsk. “You’ve turned up here unannounced, leaving your husband in a state, and you call that fine? You can’t just run away from your problems, Zoe!” she snaps. “You need to fix whatever’s happened.”
“I don’t have to do shit! He fucked up, not me.”
“Zoe, your mother and I are just concerned.”
“Concerned about what? Your only daughter? Or my marriage?”
“You’re a married woman now, Zoe,” Mum fires back. “You and Liam are supposed to work these things out.”
“Work things out? Like what? Let him screw another woman in our bed and call it a fucking mistake?” My voice breaks on the last word, but I push through. There’s so much they don’t know. So much I’m too terrified to say.
Dad’s eyes narrow, his face carefully blank, the way it always looks when he’s thinking. That unreadable expression used to unsettle me as a kid, and it still does now. His gaze drops, zeroing in on my arm. My fingers are absentmindedly rubbing at the dull ache there, where Liam’s grip left a bruise last night. I jerk my hand away, but it’s too late.
“Did something else happen?” His voice is low.
I shake my head. “No.” The lie burns all the way down, but I can’t give him the truth—not here, not now. I swallow hard. “Hecheated on me, Dad. No… has been cheating on me. And I’m done.”
Mum’s hand ghosts her mouth. “Zoe, I-I didn’t know.”
“Of course you didn’t,” I fire back before I can stop myself. “Because I didn’t tell you. But you never check in, do you? You never ask how I am. You just assume things—assume I’m the problem, that I’m the one who needs fixing. Well, I’m not going back to him. I’m not fixing anything. He’s ruined it, and I’m done.”
“You can’t mean that,” she says weakly.
