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I hate this house.
I’ve hated it for a long time, but I hate it more now. Looking up at the extravagance of it all, the size that’s always been too much for three people, let alone two now, and thinking of my mother inside, all alone and no doubt hurting, makes me feel small. Like I’m a child again.
I press the doorbell and wait anxiously on the porch, twisting my hands as I hear my mother’s voice calling from the other side. Even through the door she sounds…tired. It makes my guilt worse, makes that sick feeling that’s been building in my stomach more prominent.
She looks as tired as she sounds when she opens the door, her blue eyes so clear that they always seem to see right through me wet with old tears and red-rimmed over dark circles. It makes her look smaller than she is, more frail.
“Ian,” she says wearily. She shakes her head. “Glad you finally came to visit.”
“Mom,” I try. “I’m—”
“Not here,” she sighs, stepping away from the door and gesturing inside. “Come in.”
I follow her through the house, watching her stop at the wet bar and pour herself a generous glass of wine. My entire life, my mother has been the picture of put together. Being the wife of Bradley Chase has meant she’s had to be—so it’s a little startling to see her in old flannel pants and a loose robe over a simple cotton T-shirt. Even on Christmas morning, my mother was always photo ready.
She carries her glass to the couch, taking a heavy sip before patting the cushion beside her. “Well, come on.”
I step through the room carefully, as if I might set her off at any moment, bracing myself for her anger, her sadness, her disappointment—knowing I deserve all of it. I settle next to her as she takes another drink of wine, silence hanging between us as I try to decide what the hell I should say, how I should even begin to apologize.
“Well,” she says before I figure it out, “I’d hoped you’d come to visit in better circumstances.”
There’s amusement in her voice, but like her face, it seems tired.
“I should have,” I tell her honestly. “I wanted to.”
She nods slowly, her gaze fixed on the opposite wall. “How much did you know?”
“I…” That panic that almost overtook me earlier claws its way up my chest, and I have to physically wrestle it down, knowing that my mother doesn’t need any more to deal with right now. “Everything,” I tell her in a small, guilt-drenched tone. “I knew everything.”
“For how long?”
“Since…” I wince, preparing myself for everything I deserve her to feel toward me. “Since I left Boston.”
She nods again, still staring at the wall. “I guess all of that makes sense now. I always wondered why you felt you needed to leave us. Why you couldn’t just come clean about who that woman was.” She shakes her head, smiling fondly. “I knew you would never do what they were saying you did.”
“No, but I did something worse,” I tell her. “I lied to you. To everyone, but more importantly you. I thought…” My voice cracks, and I have to take a deep breath. “I thought I was protecting you, and Dad, he—” I shake my head. “He told me to go.”
She stills. “He what?”
“He told me the team would be better off if I left. That everyone would be better off.”
“That conniving bastard,” she hisses, crossing her arms over her chest. Her face pinches as she shuts her eyes, seeming to try to collect herself. “So all these years when you said you were happy there, that you didn’t want to come back…?”
I nod. “He was strongly against it.”
“But you did, anyway,” she points out.
“Eventually.” I bob my head in a nod. “I wanted to finish here. At home. I decided it was worth risking his anger.” I make a frustrated sound. “And now look what’s happened.”
“Ian,” Mom sighs. “You aren’t the one who made all these bad choices. Your father is.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m as bad as he is. I chose not to tell you, and now you’re suffering even more than you would have if I’d just been truthful. None of this is what I wanted. I never wanted to hurt you, Mom.”
My mom takes another slow sip, her eyes faraway, as if she’s thinking. She draws in a deep inhale just to expel it slowly, bobbing her head in a nod. “Sometimes hurt is inevitable, sweetheart. Heart pain is a wound just like any other, but lies are an infection. Sometimes they’re deep enough that you don’t feel that pain, not for a while, but they keep the wound from healing right, they bury deep and make that wound bigger and bigger until it’s not a little cut anymore but a gaping, bleeding thing. Until it’s so big you have to amputate.”
“Mom,” I choke out.
“Shh, Ian.” She waves me off. “I’m not angry with you.”
