Page 37 of Sinner’s Torment

Really saw it.

The lines around her eyes were deeper than I remembered. Her hair had more gray threaded through the brown. But her eyes—God, her eyes were exactly the same. Warm and brown and filled with a love so fierce it made my chest ache.

“Mama,” I choked out, and that single word broke me completely.

I ran to her.

I didn’t think about it, didn’t plan it, didn’t try to maintain any dignity or composure. I just ran, closing the distance between us in seconds, and threw myself into her arms like I was five years old again and she was the only person in the world who could make everything okay.

She caught me, her arms wrapping around me tight, one hand coming up to cradle the back of my head. She was shorter than me now—when had that happened?—but she held me like I weighed nothing, like she could carry all my burdens without breaking a sweat.

“Oh, baby,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “Oh, my sweet girl.”

And I broke.

I sobbed into her shoulder, great heaving sobs that shook my entire body. All the fear, all the exhaustion, all the loneliness and desperation and terror I’d been holding back came pouring out in ugly, gasping cries. I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t control it. I couldn’t do anything but cling to her and cry like my heart was being ripped out of my chest.

She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t demand an explanation. She just held me, rocking me slightly, her hand stroking my hair the way she used to when I was little and had nightmares.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “You’re home now. You’re safe. It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t okay. Nothing was okay. Everything was falling apart, and I didn’t know how to fix it, didn’t know how to make it right.

I felt my father’s presence before I saw him. He came up beside us, his large hand settling on my back, warm and steady. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His touch said everything—I’m here. We’re here. You’re not alone.

My siblings stayed back, giving us space, but I could feel their eyes on me. Concerned. Worried. Probably confused as hell about why their sister had shown up out of nowhere looking like she’d been through a war.

I didn’t know how long we stood there in the driveway. Minutes, maybe. Or hours. Time felt meaningless, suspended in the safety of my mother’s arms.

Eventually, the sobs subsided into hiccupping breaths. My mother pulled back slightly, her hands coming up to cup my face, her thumbs wiping away the tears that continued to stream down my cheeks.

“Let’s get you inside,” she said softly, her eyes searching mine. I could see the questions there, the worry, the desperate need to understand what had brought me home in this state. But she didn’t ask. Not yet. “You look exhausted, honey. When’s the last time you slept?”

I couldn’t remember. The motel in Pennsylvania? That felt like a lifetime ago.

“I don’t know,” I whispered, my voice hoarse from crying.

My father’s arm came around my shoulders, supporting me as my mother kept one hand on my back. Together, they guided me toward the house, moving slowly, like I might shatter if they went too fast.

Duke held the door open, his expression tight with concern. Tracy and Chris stepped aside to let us pass, both of them watching me with worried eyes but saying nothing. They understood, somehow, that this wasn’t the time for questions. That whatever had brought me home was bigger than casual curiosity.

The inside of the house smelled exactly the way I remembered—like my mother’s cooking, like the lavender sachets she kept in the linen closet, like home. The living room was the same, too. The same worn couch with the crocheted blanket draped over the back. The same family photos on the walls. The same cross-stitch sampler my grandmother had made hanging above the television.

Nothing had changed.

And yet everything had.

“Come on, sweetheart,” my mother said, steering me down the narrow hallway toward the bedrooms. “Let’s get you settled.”

My childhood bedroom was at the end of the hall, the smallest of the four bedrooms but the one with the best view of the backyard. My mother opened the door, and I stepped inside, my breath catching.

It was exactly as I’d left it.

The same twin bed with the faded purple comforter. The same white dresser with the chipped paint. The same posters on the walls—bands I’d loved as a teenager, movies I’d watched a hundred times. Even my old stuffed animals were still arranged on the shelf above the bed, dusty but present.

She’d kept it. All these years, she’d kept my room exactly as it was, like she’d been waiting for me to come home.

The realization made my throat tight all over again.