Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 46619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 233(@200wpm)___ 186(@250wpm)___ 155(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 233(@200wpm)___ 186(@250wpm)___ 155(@300wpm)
Why is her voice so soft?
Is that concern I see in her eyes?
This is all a dream from which I’ll wake up anytime soon, right?
“Melody?” she calls again. “You look pale. Do you need to go to the hospital?”
You’re amazing...You’re perfect.
Abram’s voice suddenly filters into my head, overshadowing the voice of fear and doubts.
And just like that, I realize that I’m older. I’m stronger. She can only hurt me if I give her the power to. So, I square my shoulders and raise my eyes to hers.
“I’m good,” I say in a leveled tone. “How did you find me here?”
Mom sighs.
“I’ve known you’re in Hudson since you arrived here. Believe it or not, I kept tabs on you. I just needed to ask around about you when I got down here... It wasn’t that hard to locate you. When I saw the open door I got worried and well you know the rest.”
“What do you want from me?” I ask, my chest swelling up with mounting frustration. “Why did you follow me here? Have you come to tell me more about how I ruined your life? Have you come to see how much of a disappointment I turned out to be? Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you again. I’m happy. I’m living such a great life as you can see! Get the hell out of my life!”
I burst into angry tears.
Years of holding back and docilely taking all life has dished out, rush at me, and my heart feels like it’s going to burst.
I’m angry at Jack, who thinks he can take advantage of me and treat me like trash.
I’m angry at my Mom for waltzing back into my life after years of emotional abuse.
I’m angry at the universe for dishing me such a shitty fate.
I’m especially angry at myself for holding it all in for so long.
My Mom comes to sit beside me and wraps her hands gently around my shoulders. I collapse against her chest, and we sob together for what seems to be a long time but must be only minutes.
“I’m sorry...I’m so sorry,” Mom mutters over and over again.
“Why did you do that to me,” I sob. “Why...? You were supposed to love me and protect me, but you hurt me the most.”
Mom pulls back so she can look at my face.
She takes my hands in hers and patiently waits for me to raise my eyes to hers.
I hadn’t noticed amidst the commotion earlier, but she looks so different from the Roslyn Hanson that I used to know.
Her eyes were always so filled with a frigid bitterness but now they hold contentment and compassion. And is that regret I see filtering through her eyes?
She seems entirely different, like a stranger from whom I can draw comfort.
“It’s why I’m here,” Mom says, her hands tightening unconsciously around mine. “I know that those years can’t magically disappear like they never happened and that we may never have a mother and child relationship, but I wanted to apologize, at least. I’m sorry for all those things I said to you. I’m sorry for all the times I made you feel small and inconsequential. I’m sorry for always pulling you down and depriving you of a happy childhood. I’m so sorry, Melody.”
Maybe it’s because she’s so specific about her apology, but it feels like a heavy weight has been lifted off my chest with each point she apologizes for.
Abram has helped me out of my shell and showed me that I’m worthy of love, sometimes it’s hard to believe, but this is exactly what I needed to complete my healing.
Silent tears roll down my cheeks, but I don’t feel so angry anymore this time.
I feel relieved...
“I was so caught up in my past mistakes that I couldn’t see what a blessing you were,” Mom continues, her regret much more evident in her voice. “I was so focused on taking out the father’s sin on the child that I ended up becoming a horrible mother. I was so bitter at you and your father, and I guess I needed you to share in my misery.”
It’s surprising to hear her say the word ‘father’ to me.
Mom has never once mentioned my father, and I never dared to ask about him, not even when my kindergarten peers made fun of me and called me names for not having a dad. And when I was old enough to make assumptions, I decided it was better to think of him as dead, and I could only hope he was a better person than my mom.
“My dad?” I say in a small voice. “What kind of person was he?”
“He’s alive and well, Melody,” Mom says, lowering her gaze from mine.
When she raises her eyes back to mine, they are filled with so much pain and regret that my heart goes out to her.