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Sorry, Mom.

Hope doesn’t live here. You broke into the wrong apartment.

I tried to remain inconspicuous despite my lumbering retreat to the bedroom, unable to meet her eyes. The last thing I wanted to do was talk about this. Again.

“Tara.”

“I’m tired,” I called back. “I don’t know why you’re here.”

“Yes, you do.” She stood from the chair, the legs squeaking against yellowing tile. “How did it go?”

Sighing, I paused in the center of the hallway and flicked my hair out of my eyes. “He’s not dead.” Then I attempted another escape.

She stopped me. “Tara. Let’s talk.”

“Sounds worse than a lecture from Aunt Laurel about the importance of color-coordinating your prayer shawls for the church bazaar.”

“I’m serious,” she said, swirling her wine glass before taking a hearty gulp. “This is important.”

It was important.

That was why it hurt so much. And when something hurt, I avoided it instead of dealing with it. I distracted myself with shiny, pretty things, eager to bury the pain and move forward, focusing on anything else. Everyone had their coping mechanisms. Mine had served me well enough.

But I recognized her tone. She wasn’t going to let up. She’d follow me into the bedroom and try to talk sense into me while I daydreamed about burrowing under the bed covers and waking up to a new day, where my mother wasn’t hovering over me, forcing parental wisdom down my throat.

I huffed and spun around to face her, my face a mask of irritation. “I’m twenty years old. I don’t appreciate you showing up at my apartment without an invitation.”

“You gave me a key.”

“For emergencies.”

“This is an emergency.”

My eyes narrowed. “Dad screwing my best friend isn’t an emergency. It was a stunning lack of judgment on his part that I don’t feel like rehashing for the billionth time. I’m tired. Please leave.”

She stared at me with knowing acorn eyes. Warmth resided there. It always did, no matter what crass words spilled from my mouth. No matter how incorrigible I could be. She was always warm and soft. Reassuring in a way that severed my defenses and had me wanting to run into her arms, regardless of my anger or bitterness.

Halley never had that. Not until she lived with us.

It was hard for me to imagine a life without a mom like mine, so that was what had me trudging forward, sighing with surrender, and loosening the chip on my shoulder. “I tried,” I murmured. “I tried to understand. To accept. But it feels impossible.”

A smile tipped her lips as she gestured me toward the table. “Sit.”

Ruefully, I obeyed, inching closer to the kitchen. That was when my attention landed on something sprawled across the tabletop. Something that had my jaw clenching, my fists balling, my heart kicking up speed. “Where did you find that?”

She glanced at it. “It’s been collecting dust under your bed for two years.”

“That’s mine.”

“Have you looked through it?”

I swallowed, folding my arms. “No.”

“Why not?”

“That doesn’t matter.” Acid stung the back of my throat as an itchy feeling crawled over my skin. “I’ll look at it when I’m ready. You don’t get to decide when I’m ready.”

“I’ll look through it with you. Maybe that will help.”