Page 1 of Ruthless Truths

1

OLIVIA

Silence is deafening. It’s a saying I’ve heard many times before. Yet, until now, I’d never truly grasped its meaning. I should consider myself lucky for that small fact, but there isn’t anythingluckyabout losing the only parent I’ve ever truly had.

As I sit in the aged living room of my mother’s house—the place I called home throughout my childhood—it’s only now hitting me that she’s gone.

Gone and never coming back.

Though it’s been three days since her passing, between the constant flow of visitors and funeral arrangements, I haven’t had a moment to fully accept that I’ll never see her again.

I’ll never smell her floral perfume or rub her pink lipstick off my cheek or need a chiropractor after one of her all-encompassing, exuberant hugs. Worse, the sound of her sweet voice is no longer here to tell me everything is going to be okay.

The unknown of not having my mother available to me, no matter how crazy she could be, terrifies and paralyzes me all at once.

I lose myself in the once vibrant but now faded and peeling yellow wallpaper of the living room, trying my best to hold on to any one emotion, but just as soon as I start to feel anything, it’s swallowed by the pain.

Still, regardless of the physical aches consuming me, I don’t really cry. Not like I feel I should be. Not the sobbing, chest-opening wails I would have expected.

Silence is deafening, I repeat to myself.

Palpable. Overwhelming. The sole backdrop to the kind of grief that makes me fear every moment of the future that I’ll face without her.

I adored my mother. She was an amazing woman who loved me with her whole heart and then some. Who gave more than she ever received, who would want more for me than this excruciating numbness I’ve found myself trapped in. It feels as if my deeper emotions have abandoned me, leaving me caged inside myself, unable to properly release the agony inside me.

My best friend Tori places her hand on my shoulder, interrupting my dazed state. “Liv?” she asks softly.

Startled, I wipe the tears from my face and look up at her. Her blonde hair is braided over her shoulder and her round cheeks are flushed, making her appear much younger than twenty-nine.

She brushes her hands over her black dress and bites the corner of her mouth. It’s a nervous tic she’s had since we met in grade school.

“What is it?” I ask, then clear my throat when I don’t recognize the monotone cadence of my voice.

“I found some stuff that you’re going to want to see,” she says. “I wanted to wait since the funeral was today, but it’s time sensitive.”

She reaches for my hand, and I let her pull me up from the threadbare forest green chair, guiding me toward the third bedroom in the house. The one that has slowly transformed into a cluttered storage space over the years.

It’s the one area of the house I’ve avoided since finding out Mom died. The musty odor and the uncertainty of what I might uncover within its walls have kept me at bay.

Yes, my mother loved me fiercely, but the woman had her secrets. Some I’d sussed out over the years, and others were left concealed. I like to pretend there’s good reason for that, but deep down, I’ve been too afraid of what I might find.

Tori hands me a stack of mail. “These are bills for the house. I know you already put your notice in at your apartment with the intent of living here—” she bites her lip again “—but maybe they’ll let you renege on that.”

My mouth presses into a hard line, already knowing that’s impossible. I lived in a rent-controlled apartment in Portland, Oregon, a city where everything has tripled in price over the last few years. My place was snatched up before the ink even dried on my notice.

“They can’t be that bad,” I say, taking them from her, hoping that whatever Mom left in savings will be enough to cover what’s owed.

Then, my stomach sinks.

The top envelope reads “Final Notice” in red ink on the front.

Fuck, Mom. What have you done?

I tear it open, even more irritated that she hadn’t even cared to read the contents of something so important.

It’s a letter from the county. Mom hasn’t paid the property taxes on this house in six years.

Six fucking years.

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