Why was she in my bed?
She focused on the wall, not seeming to notice me in front of her, but then she blinked and looked up.
The sadness in her bloodshot brown eyes paralyzed me. This wasn’t my mother.
Her unkempt hair was stuffed into a messy ponytail, stray hairs falling over her face, and the usual smooth surface of her cheekbones and jaw was now showing visible signs of age and stress.
She’d been crying. A lot.
Her eyes fell, and I watched as her shaky arms pushed her up to a sitting position. She barely had the strength to move.
Her heavy eyes were tired, and I swallowed the fat lump in my throat seeing the misery on her face.
My eyes stung.
“Mother?” I whispered.
And just then her face cracked. She broke into tears and buried her face in her hands, and I watched her, wondering what the hell was going on and if this was real. My heart felt as if it were being torn in two.
Tears blurred my eyes as I scowled at her. This wasn’t real. It was an act.
She was hunched over, sobbing into her hands, and I shook my head, unable to believe her. I had no idea how to take this.
Then I saw my bedside table. There was a picture of my father with me.
Me. Juliet. Not K.C.
I was ten years old, and he had snuck me to a carnival without my mother knowing during one of his stints out of the hospital. He’d kept the picture in his hospital room, but I never knew what happened to it after he’d died.
She’d kept it.
And then I saw another picture. Cracked and dull, the photo was clearly old. Picking it up, I looked into the face of a little girl, standing with two adults. It was my mother as a child with her parents. Her father wore a suit as he stood above her mother, who sat on a chair, stiff with her hands resting in her lap. My mother—about thirteen or so—stood to the side, untouched. No one was smiling.
I looked back down at her, seeing her drop her hands to her lap and keep her head down as she fisted her robe and cried.
I blinked, letting my silent tears spill over. I didn’t know what to do.
I didn’t love my mother. I didn’t even know her.
But as I looked down at her and saw her broken life and the weight of her mistakes crumbling her composure, I felt the despair she must be feeling. What a horror it must be to realize you’ve gone too far to go back. And what pain it must be to have a life full of regret and know there are not nearly enough years to undo the damage.
Through all of her faults—the abuse, the neglect, the pain—she’d lost everything, and I was happier without her. I didn’t fear her, and I could go right now and not lose anything.
But I didn’t go.
I sat down, next to her on the bed, and waited for her to stop crying.
“Hey, you.” Tate fell down next to me on the lawn chair where I sat. “Where’ve you been?”
“To hell and back,” I muttered, sipping my wine cooler. “You know, the usual.”
After my mother had calmed down, I got her in the shower, put her in clean pajamas, and made her eat a sandwich.
She didn’t say a single word the entire time, and after she’d gone to bed—in her own room—I’d stayed until she was asleep.
I’d return tomorrow. And if she finally spoke and said things I didn’t like, I would leave. But I had to go back to check on her. I was strong enough.
“So, where’s your dad?” I asked Tate, looking her up and down and noticing the relaxed demeanor.
She blew out a breath. “Jet-lagged. Went home a while ago.”
I narrowed my eyes, studying her with a slight grin. “Are you drunk, Tate?”
She snorted as if I’d said something funny, and I glanced over and saw Jared, sitting on a chair, staring off as he tipped back a shot of liquor. Aura hovered close to his side, sitting next to him and drawing on his biceps, the one that didn’t currently sport a tattoo. Since she did everyone’s tattoos, it was nothing to see her here. She’d become close to us all. But it was odd to see Jared drinking and Tate …
“You are drunk, aren’t you?” I teased, but still felt somewhat concerned.
“I’m not drunk!” Fallon nearly bowled me over as she crashed to my other side. “I’m severely and illegally buzzed with my father standing right over there but definitely not drunk.”
She and Tate laughed, and I smiled, peering over through the glass doors to the man she pointed at. Her father, the infamous Ciaran Pierce, who employed Jax, didn’t look as intimidating as I thought he would. With light brown hair, grayed but distinguished looking, and wearing a suit coat, shirt open at the collar, and black slacks, he seemed more like a Ralph Lauren ad.
Bringing the bottle back up to my lips, I laughed quietly. “Well, I guess I’m behind then. I’d better catch up.”
I hadn’t gotten back to Madoc’s until an hour ago. After I’d dealt with my mother, the afternoon had been shot, and by the time I’d shown up to the party, the “parents” had retired to the bar area in the basement, letting the young people have the pool.
“I need another drink,” I said, standing up. Leaving them together on the chair, I walked to the beer tubs between the brick wall and the pool, both overlooking Madoc’s extensive manicured lawn and the wooded area beyond.
The emerald green grass now looked navy blue with the moonlit sky overhead, and I envied that Madoc got to grow up here. No wonder he loved life the way he did. What person wouldn’t who was allowed to roam and explore the way he must’ve been? He was the only one out of all of us who had had two loving parents. Except Tate.