Page 31 of Betrayed By Sin
She must sense it, because she changes the subject.
“There’s a birthday coming up,” she says, almost playfully.
A smile teases at my lips. “I think you’re right. The eleventh, June? It does ring a bell.”
“That’s truthfully why I mentioned the party.” She continues gently. “We could throw a small one. Nothing too grand. Just a few people. You could invite someone if you like.”
My mind immediately goes to Sin. Then Bria.
But I say nothing. The only people in my life that aren’t the enemy is Victoria.
“Think about it,” she adds. “It doesn’t have to be a spectacle. Just something... warm. Something yours. I…” She looks away. “I know it’s selfish of me to say, but I’ve never gotten to celebrate your birthday with you.”
I nod slowly, the idea settling into the edges of my mind. I don’t know if I’m ready for that. But the fact that she wants to do something for me, really for me, makes something inside me thaw. I think about her struggles, the inner turmoil of not seeing me for any milestones.
I’m still for a moment, the sound of her voice cutting through the comfortable silence in a way that makes me feel suddenlyvulnerable. My birthday. A day I’ve never really celebrated. A day that’s always been forgotten by everyone who mattered.
Her gaze doesn’t leave the space in front of her, and I can feel her mind wandering back. I almost don’t want to hear it, but I can't stop myself from leaning in, eager for something I didn’t know I needed. “What do you mean celebrate with me? Did you still do something?”
“Every year,” she continues, her fingers lightly tracing the edge of her teacup. “When June eleventh rolled around, while you were at the orphanage, I would make a small cake. Nothing too big, of course. Just for me. It was always a simple lemon cake with buttercream. You would’ve liked that, I think.” Her voice catches for a moment, a faint crack of emotion threading through the words.
She quickly smooths over it, but I’ve already caught it. “I’d bake it while the house was quiet. Sometimes, I would pretend you were here. Pretend you were out there, in the kitchen, helping me frost it, or laughing about how badly I’d mixed the batter. Just the thought of it would get me through.” Her eyes flick up to meet mine, and they’re brimming with an emotion I can’t quite place. So much love, so much regret. “But you weren’t. And there was nothing I could do about it.”
I shift uncomfortably, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
"I’d light a candle for you every year, Magnolia," she says, her voice thick with emotion. "It was the only thing I could do. Even when it felt like the whole world had forgotten you, I never did. I’d sit in the dark, just staring at that little flame, imagining you as a little girl with your raven hair. I’d close my eyes and pretend you were there with me. I’d sing you a song... the same one I used to sing to you when you were a baby.”
I swallow hard, feeling something heavy settle in my chest. “What song?”
Her lips tremble as she smiles softly. “It’s silly, really. But it was a lullaby my mother used to sing to me when I was little. I never stopped singing it to you, even when you were gone.”
“Can you sing it now?” I ask before I realize the question has left my mouth. My heart skips, nervous, but there’s something in me that wants to hear it. Something raw, something buried deep that wants to hear her sing, to hear her tie us together in a way I’ve never known before.
Maria’s eyes flutter closed for just a moment, like she’s gathering courage. And then, her voice, soft and hesitant, begins to fill the room. The notes are low at first, as if she’s testing the sound, but they gain strength as she continues, growing clearer, more assured. The melody is old, gentle, and haunting. It's the kind of song that feels like it’s been passed down through generations, full of love and heartache, steeped in something sacred.
I don’t speak, just listen.
Her voice breaks slightly as she hits the last note, and when she opens her eyes, they’re shining with tears she doesn’t bother to hide anymore.
“I sang that for you, every year,” she whispers. “Every single year, until I couldn’t do it anymore. Until the silence was too loud, too deafening without you here.”
I don’t know what to say. What can I say to that? That she’s given me something I never knew I needed? That every moment she’s spent thinking of me, missing me, has been hidden behind walls of quiet pain?
Instead, I find myself reaching out, my hand trembling slightly as I place it on hers. The touch is simple. Barely there, but it feels like the most profound connection we’ve shared so far.
Her gaze meets mine again, and for a moment, I don’t feel like the daughter who was lost. I don’t feel like the woman who’sbeen out of place in this house, in this life, for so long. For a second, it’s just the two of us, mother and daughter, together in this small moment.
“You don’t have to do that anymore,” I say quietly, a lump forming in my throat. “I’m here. I’m here now.”
Her lips tremble again, but this time she doesn’t try to fight the tears. She nods, a quiet acknowledgment that it will take time, so much time, but that she’s finally ready to stop pretending I’m still a distant dream.
“I know,” she says, her voice low and broken. “I know.”
I can’t tell who needs the comfort more, her or me.
In that small, tender moment, I feel like maybe we’re both starting to heal.
The tea grows cold in my hands.
