Page 165 of Break Point
Embarrassed.
“Then you should’ve stayed in New York.”
So much for keeping my mouth shut.
I give myself some grace and reset my internal word counter.
She sniffs and looks around the room like she’s lost something.
It might be her words.
“I was dehydrated and fainted.” She tilts her chin up proudly and blinks, her body language doing her no favors. “I’m … sorry.”
I regard her in silence and let her sit with her performative apology.
“This room is freezing!” she blurts, rubbing her thin arms under the flimsy hospital gown.
She’s not wrong. It is cold. Thankfully, I threw on a hoodie before coming. But we’re going in circles. She’s deflecting, like always, veering away from calling things by their name.
“Aren’t you going to say something?” She sighs, frustrated at my lack of engagement.
“I was told you wanted to see me,” I say with a shrug. “Here I am.”
She stares at me like it’s the first time she’s looked at me in years.
“I tried. I—” Her voice cracks, and her shaky fingers press on her mouth as if wanting to take back the words. She clears her throat, stillfighting to preserve the flawless composure she wears like armor. “You haveno ideawhat it’s like inside my head.”
I wasn’t aware that was my responsibility.
“I don’t,” I agree, shaking my head. “All I know is you promised to be at my match. And you couldn’t make it past the media tent.”
Mom’s lips shake, but her eyes burn.
“You don’t know what it’s like to lose everything you’ve worked for!” she cries, tears streaming down her beautiful face. It makes her look younger. More relatable. “To have sacrificed so much, only to have life rub it in your face!”
There you go.
“What about the things you got in return for what you lost?” I snap, pushing my sleeves up to my elbows. “Like our family.”
I’m so done with listening to how she’d choose tennis over me any day of the week.
Poor Addison, America’s sweetheart, still drew the short end of the stick with a husband and two healthy kids who love her to death, despite everything.
“How do you think it makesmefeel to have my own mother resent me for my talent and accomplishments? To be made to feel like no matter how fucking hard I try to earn a sliver of your respect, it’s useless because I’ll never measure up to your greatness and be worthy of your love and attention.”
Mom chokes on a sob.
“I didn’t mean—” She reaches out for me, but her IV tugs at her hand and she flinches, pulling back with a wince.
“I can’t look at you wasting away on my behalf,” I spit out the words, and they land. I know they’re blunt and raw, but that doesn’t make them any less true. She knows this. I know this. We all know this. But I can’t watch her prolong the agony any longer. We’ve reached the bottom of the well.
She throws her head back against the propped-up hospital bed and stares at the ceiling, but God can’t come down and save her if she doesn’t want to save herself first.
I watch her, trying my fucking best to be patient, but I’m hanging by a thread here.
“You didn’t do this to me,” she finally declares, her voice small, barely a whisper, but the words hit like thunder. “I’mdoing this to myself.”
“Then say it.”
