Things We Never Said (Hart's Boardwalk 3)

Staring up at her in horror, I wondered how it was possible that this was my mother. How the woman who had given birth to me, raised me, comforted me when I was hurt, could hate me this much? Tears filled my eyes, and I despised myself for the weakness. “

Everyone was out. It was just you and me in the house, and you found me in the bedroom. You attacked me.” The memory flashed over me, and I could still feel the burn of her slaps. “You started slapping me.”

Dermot pulled in a breath behind Mom.

“You kept telling me I was selfish. That it should have been me.” The tears scalded my cheeks. “It should have been me, you said. Why did God take the wrong kid, you said.”

“Jesus fuck,” my brother whispered.

I swiped angrily at my tears as I saw my mother’s eyes brighten with her own. “I didn’t know how to deal with that … to have my mom hate me so much … So yeah, I drank to cope. I’m not proud of myself. I’m not proud that Dad had to send me away from everything that happened here. And I’m not proud that I stayed away because I was so afraid to face you again. Not because of you”—I shook my head at her as I realized I would never get the reassurance I needed from her—“but because I hurt them. The family that still loved me.” I looked past her shoulder to Dermot, who had gone chalk white. “I’m sorry I abandoned you,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

A deathly silence filled the room.

Dermot stared at Mom in accusation.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Mom whispered.

“Is it true?” he grunted, like he could hardly get the words out. “Did you do that to her?”

My mom was quiet for a while and then she whispered tearfully, “She ruined your sister’s life.”

“Mom, you know that’s not true.”

“You all can’t see it, but it’s true. And Dill—” Mom sobbed. “She was my little girl. God took my little girl.”

“And what about Dahlia?” Dermot retorted. “She’s your kid too, Mom.”

“No. She was never mine. She was always his. God would take mine, wouldn’t he? Story of my fuckin’ life.”

“I can’t …”

I turned to see my brother glaring incredulously at her.

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You made it seem like you were angry at her for leaving. Not for coming back!”

“Don’t.” Mom hurried over to him, cupping his face. “My whole life has fallen apart, and it’s her fault. Don’t let her take you too.”

Dermot shook his head, yanking her hands from his face. “Mom,” he said, “that’s so fucked up. That’s so fucked up. You need to see someone. You need to talk to someone about this because this is …” His voice trailed off. My thirty-three-year-old brother looked like a lost little boy, and I wanted to comfort him.

“That’s what Cian said.” Mom stepped back, wiping at her tears.

“Then maybe you should listen to us.”

Mom looked just as lost. “You don’t understand.”

He shook his head again. “It’s not rational, Mom. It’s fucked.”

She choked on a sob and then rushed past him, dodging his hands as he tried to stop her. The front door slammed shut behind her.

Seeing her now, and not through the grief-shrouded fog of the messed-up young woman I’d been, I realized with a sick feeling in my gut that Sorcha McGuire was not mentally well. She’d twisted everything up inside her and saw what she wanted to see. As I’d gotten older, hitting my teens, I realized that was a part of my mom’s personality. But it had been in smaller, less significant ways back then. If she didn’t like an idea, like when I’d first said I wanted to go to art school, she pretended like it wasn’t true. She would talk to me about law school and business school like I hadn’t repeatedly told her they were a no-go.

However, what she’d convinced herself—that I’d ruined her life—had done nothing but destroy her life, like a self-fulfilling prophecy. No wonder Dad had gone to see her to tell her she needed therapy.

My mom needed therapy.

Knowing that didn’t remove the ball of ugly that sat in my gut. My own mom hated me.

There weren’t any magic words in the world that could take away that kind of pain.