Page 19 of Broken Secrets
“Same thing from where I’m standing.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, staring at the laptop screen where Jeremy’s family photo is still visible. When she finally speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper.
“He hurt me. In ways that…in ways I’m still healing from. And I couldn’t bear the thought of him hurting you too.”
“How did he hurt you?”
“I’ll tell you everything. But not tonight. I need… I need time to figure out how to say it.”
It’s not the answer I want, but it’s more than she’s ever given me before. And something in her expression tells me that pushing harder right now would be cruel.
“How much time?”
“This weekend. Saturday morning. I promise.”
I want to demand answers now, and I want to threaten to call Jeremy myself if she doesn’t start talking. But Mom looks so fragile sitting there, clutching that manila envelope like it’s the only thing keeping her together.
“Okay,” I say. “Saturday morning. But if you change your mind, if you try to back out or make excuses, I’m calling him myself.”
Actually, I already tried that. Maybe she’s right about him not wanting anything to do with us.
She nods, fresh tears spilling over. “I understand.”
She starts to leave, then pauses in the doorway. “I know I’ve messed up. I know I’ve kept too much from you. But everything I’ve done, every choice I’ve made, has been because I love you more than anything in this world.”
“I know,” I say, and I do know. But love isn’t always enough to make the right choices. Sometimes love makes you so scared of losing someone that you end up pushing them away instead.
After she’s gone, I curl up on my bed. I check my email one more time, hoping maybe Jeremy responded while Mom and I were fighting. But there’s nothing. Just the silence that’s been surrounding my father’s existence my entire life.
CHAPTER FIVE
Saturday morning arrivesgray and overcast, the marine layer thick enough to muffle the usual sounds of surfers and joggers on the beach. I check my email one more time - still nothing from Jeremy. Part of me wonders if the email even went through, or if his business account automatically filters messages from strangers. Maybe it’s for the best. After today’s conversation with mom, I might not even want his response anymore.
Downstairs, Mom’s already in the kitchen, wearing her weekend uniform of yoga pants and an oversized sweater. She’s making pancakes, the fancy kind with blueberries and lemon zest, which means she’s either nervous or trying to soften me up for bad news.
“Morning, sweetheart,” she says without turning around. Her voice sounds strained, like she’s been practicing normal conversation in the mirror.
“Morning.”
Robert’s at the kitchen island with his Saturday crossword puzzle, but I can tell he’s not really solving clues. His pen hasn’t moved in the five minutes I’ve been watching him.
“Sleep well?” he asks, glancing up.
“Like a baby,” I say.
Mom sets a plate of pancakes in front of me, along with real maple syrup and fresh strawberries. Comfort food for an uncomfortable conversation.
“These look amazing,” I say, because someone needs to acknowledge the effort she’s putting into this performance of normalcy.
“Thought we could eat on the patio,” she suggests. “It’s nice out.”
It’s not nice out. It’s cloudy and humid and the kind of weather that makes you want to stay inside with the curtains drawn. But I nod anyway.
The patio table overlooks our tiny backyard, where Robert’s been cultivating what he optimistically calls a garden. Three tomato plants and some herbs struggling to survive in sandy soil. Beyond the fence, I can hear the ocean, waves rolling steady and predictable.
We eat in silence for a few minutes. Mom pushes her pancakes around her plate, taking tiny bites that she chews thoroughly before swallowing. Robert clears his throat several times, like he wants to say something but can’t find the words.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore.
