I can’t stay still.
Ever since Samantha showed up, I’ve been pacing the length of my room, back and forth like a trapped animal.
After I talked to Lewis, I spent time with Kirian and Dad. We played Scrabble, then we put my baby brother to bed. Now, I’m in my room, feeling out of sorts.
Dad just told me about what Samantha is threatening, and I might have died inside a little.
Yes, the threat of the press and being known as Xan’s sister is crippling, and the thought of media attention makes me shake, but that’s not the reason I’ve been on the verge of crying.
It’s Xander.
It’s the boy who was running after that red car when he was so small. It’s the image of his crying face and the sound of his screams as he begged Samantha to stay, right before he tripped and fell.
That image has never left my mind. It was pain in its truest form, raw and deep.
The fact that the same woman has returned to inflict a different type of pain on him makes me want to punch her in the face.
She disappeared for twelve years just so she could come back and ruin his life.
Our lives.
I retrieve my phone and check my messages. Nothing from him, so I type.
Kimberly: Are you there?
No answer.
Kimberly: You know I’m here for you. I’ll never leave, just like I promised.
Still nothing.
The thought that he’s out drinking or fighting freaks me out.
I tuck the phone into the pocket of my pyjamas and head to the kitchen for some Lady Grey tea – Dad may have made me a fan lately.
On my way downstairs, I text Ronan.
Kimberly: Did Xander come by?
Ronan: Who’s that? Oh, the traitor. If he shows up, he’ll be slaughtered.
Ronan: Want to come to my party of one?
Ronan: Or two if you count the weed.
I shake my head, then text Elsa.
Kimberly: Did Xander get in touch with Aiden?
Elsa: No. Is everything okay?
Kimberly: It’s fine. I’ll tell you tomorrow.
Elsa: This is Aiden, make it after tomorrow. Or better yet, next week.
I consider texting Cole, but I don’t dare to after what he witnessed the other week.
“It’s final, Jeanine. I’ve made my decision.”
Dad’s voice stops me in my tracks at the entrance to the kitchen. He’s at the table, talking to Mum with his usual cool tone.
Her head snaps in my direction as if she senses me. I freeze in place, and even my phone remains in my hand. I’m acting like a criminal who’s been caught stealing.
“It’s because of her, isn’t it?” Mum snarls, pointing an accusatory finger in my direction.
“No, it’s because of you. You’re not fit to be the mother of my children. This is long overdue.”
“I can’t believe you’re divorcing me because the brat cut her wrist.” She glares at me.
There’s that need to melt into the wall or to dig a hole in the ground and bury myself in it.
Since I was a kid, the moment Mum has looked at me like that, I’ve been reduced to nothing.
“Shut your mouth,” Dad scolds her. “I won’t allow you to speak to her in that manner.”
“I’ll speak to her however I please. I’m the one who gave birth to her, yet she hasn’t done anything to reward me for that sacrifice.” She shakes her head, staring me down. “I should’ve got rid of you when I could.”
“Jeanine, if you don’t shut up right now –”
“Maybe you should’ve,” I speak over Dad with a calm tone. “That way, I would’ve never had the misfortune of being your daughter.”
“What did you just say to me?”
“You were never a mother.” Now that I’ve started talking, I can’t stop. The words tumble from my mouth like a prayer. “You made me feel so insignificant and small that the thought of finishing my life became the first thing I’d wake up to and the last thing I’d sleep on. You made me believe I was a mistake, a disgrace, a disappointment, but I’m not. You are. You love yourself too much to care about any other human being. Your narcissistic type shouldn’t have been allowed to give birth to children. DNA doesn’t make you a mother, it makes you a vessel.”
She barges towards me, raising her hand. I stand my ground, glaring back at her.
Now that I’ve told her what’s on my mind, there’s no way she’ll be able to bring me down. Once upon a time, I used to slave for crumbs of her attention and approval, but now, I realise I was emotionally abused by this woman.
Physical abuse is nothing compared to the scars she’s left in my soul, scars it will take me a long time to heal.
But I’ll get there. I’ll build back my life, and she won’t be a part of it.
“Touch her and I’ll burn your studio down,” Dad speaks in a non-negotiable tone.
She stops right in front of my face. Of course, the threat to her precious art, the translation of her ego, would stop Mum. No, it’s Jeanine. She was never a mother to me.
Her nostrils flare as she glares down at me. For the first time in my life, I don’t bow my head down and leave. There’s no need to cry or to hide. My bloodstream is filled with adrenaline as I meet her stare with mine.
Dad comes to my side and holds me by the shoulder. “I expect you to leave the house immediately.”
“What? You can’t do that, my paintings and supplies –”
“Everything will be packed and sent to you tomorrow. You’re not allowed to spend another minute under the same roof as my daughter.”
“You don’t understand,” she hisses. “I have an exhibition. My family is expected to be there.”
“Your exhibition is none of our business.” He motions at the door. “Now, get out of my house.”
I should feel bad, a tinge of something, but she killed that part of me a long time ago.
Now, there’s a new me, and it’s no thanks to her.
