New Hope, Old Grudges Read Online Anne Malcom

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary Tags Authors: Anne Malcom Advertisement1

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I didn’t find it by the time she wrenched the car door open.

“You’re here!” she shrieked, reaching over to unbuckle my seatbelt. She smelled of patchouli. My eyes watered at the smell suddenly, and I let myself be pulled out of the car into my mother’s arms. I didn’t know if she was surprised that I let her hug me for over a minute, but I was sure she was glad. My mother was naturally affectionate. She kissed us on the mouths until we were teenagers and would’ve done it to this day if we hadn’t protested.

I didn’t remember when I started shying away from my mother’s affection, when I forced the distance between us, but she never faltered. Not once.

“Let me look at you!”

She released me, and her eyes flickered over me.

I thought about what she’d see.

Stained workout clothes, expensive ones too, from when I had money. The leggings clung to what used to be my curves, but I had dropped a dangerous amount of weight since everything happened. My skin was sallow, there were likely bags under my eyes.

She clicked her tongue. “Gorgeous!” she declared, sounding as if she actually believed it. “But you must be starving. Leave the bags. We’ll get them later.” She shut my door then ushered me up the walk. “I’ve got breakfast ready for you. And hot tea. Chamomile. No coffee. Because after you eat, you’re going straight to bed.”

My mother didn’t hesitate to launch into nurturing mode. It was just her way.

I scoffed. “Mom, there’s no way I’ll be able to sleep.” Even though exhaustion painted my bones, there had been too much buzzing in my head before even stepping foot in my house for the first time since my father died.

“Nonsense,” my mother waved me off. “A full belly does wonders for a tired soul.” She spouted off fortune cookie type statements like that on an hourly basis.

I didn’t try to argue with her. I knew better.

There were too many ghosts in here for me to sleep. Full belly or not.

I woke up with a dry mouth and a disembodied mind. My heart rate skyrocketed as I took in the strange surroundings.

Except they weren’t strange

They were familiar.

Too familiar.

Nancy Drew books on the shelf, Twilight poster on the wall, journals bursting with sketches still piled on my sage-green dresser that had hand-painted wildflowers all over it.

I was here.

New Hope.

My home.

The urge to throw back the covers and sleep for the rest of time was overwhelming. But I could smell food cooking, and my stomach grumbled loudly. I’d tried to eat my mother’s food when I first arrived, but I’d been falling asleep at the plate. She’d quickly ushered me to my old bedroom where I didn’t even remember falling asleep.

When did I last eat? A gas station donut? A hundred miles ago? More?

Although I was pretty down, I wasn’t about to go on a hunger strike. My lack of sustenance was a result of lack of funds not will to live.

I squinted around the room and at the darkness that came from the crack in the curtain. I’d slept all day.

Great. If only I could sleep through the rest of my days here, then I’d be golden.

I pushed back the covers and frowned at my suitcase. It was open. And empty. My mother had been in here. Not just watching me sleep—as she had done regularly into my teens despite my continued protests—but unpacking my bags.

I swallowed the fire in my throat. It was a breach of privacy, but my mother didn’t really believe in privacy. Beyond that, it was a sign she knew I was going to be staying a while. Because I had nowhere else to go.

It took a lot of effort to support my own weight as that thought hit me, but I did it. Falling to my knees now wouldn’t achieve anything. So I changed out of my dirty clothes into some sweats then padded down our hall in sock-covered feet.

The cold outside was nowhere to be found in this house. It had always been warm, always smelled of home cooking, everything was soft, inviting and welcome, if a little chaotic. Pictures on the wall were always a little off-center, always a little askew. Rugs and pillows were mismatched. Crystals were cluttered on various surfaces, a rogue Tarot deck beside a half-burned candle or a nude woman figurine.

All my mother.

But my father still remained. Dog-eared biographies on Abe Lincoln and histories of countries like Rhodesia. His reading glasses sat on the coffee table as if he were just going to walk past and pick them up.

My mother had done nothing to communicate that the man had died two years ago.

“Oh, brilliant timing.” My mother appeared from the kitchen, her hair escaping in tendrils from the messy bun on top of her head. She did not follow the doctrine that women of a certain age should suddenly cut their hair short and dress conservatively. Her hair was long and flowing, wild, and she wore the same things she always did. Today it was a long, flowing skirt, cowboy boots and a chunky knit—all varying shades of purple. Chains hung from her neck. All of them mine.


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