Page 66 of The Tattered Gloves
“But I’m sure my mom knew how much she could get for that necklace,” I grumbled.
“Give her a little credit. Maybe she chose it for its meaning. It was our mother’s after all.”
“Yeah, I’m sure that really kept her heart beating — all the way to the pawn shop.”
“Willow…” Addy started.
“What? Addy, what? Why do you keep defending her? She neglected me my entire life! She brought creepy, disgusting men into our house every single night, and for what? So, she could feed me? Provide for me? Because, believe me, none of that happened! And then, when I got too grown-up-looking, she made me stay in my room after it got dark, so I wouldn’t entice the clients. So much for that!”
Turning away from the glowing tree with my arms stretched firmly across my chest, I took a deep breath, fighting back tears.
I’d suddenly lost my festive Christmas spirit.
Addy returned my heavy sigh with one of her own. “I’m sorry if you think I’m defending her,” she said quietly. “I’m just trying to make you understand her — or at least the version of her I knew.”
“Why?” I asked. “I don’t want to know anything about her!”
So much for fighting back tears. They were here, dripping down my face and sliding down my chin. I wiped them away, feeling the scratchy yarn from my fingers move against my skin.
“I just thought, maybe if you understood her roots, how she started out—”
“I’d what? Feel bad for her? Understand why she did what she did? Because I don’t!” I screamed. “I don’t understand any of it. Why she hated me, why she sent me away, when all I wanted her to do was hold me and tell me none of it was my fault. But she didn’t. She didn’t,” I said, my voice strangled and hoarse.
And, now, no one would hold me.
No one would tell me it was going to be okay.
Because I wouldn’t let them.
Because of these gloves and everything they represented.
“You know it wasn’t your fault, right?” she said softly, her kind eyes meeting mine.
I could see the emotion behind them as her heart slowly broke for me.
I quickly nodded.
“Good,” she replied. “And you know I’ll be here to tell you that whenever you want. And if you ever find yourself in need of a good hug? Well, you know where to find me.”
She turned toward the tree again, hanging the ornament she’d been holding in her hand during my mini outburst. A part of me wanted to run into her arms and never let go, to thank her for being the mom I’d never had.
To tell her I loved her.
But I couldn’t.
Because she was wrong. It was my fault.
That night was all my fault.
