“You could have called.”
It comes out as cold as her. Our roles have reversed, now.
She shifts uncomfortably on her feet. I can smell the uncertainty on her. She reeks of it.
“And how would you have explained all this?” she asks, her hand gesturing to my stomach. “So, who is it? One of those Gray boys?”
The way she speaks their names, it sounds … dirty.
I narrow my eyes at her. “I thought you liked them.”
“Well, that was before they knocked up my underage daughter,” she snaps, with a humorless laugh.
“I wasn’t underage,” I say, “it’s just … it’s complicated.”
“I imagine,” she says, mirroring my posture by crossing her arms across her chest.
There’s no warmth in her gaze. No forgiveness. No understanding.
But how could there be, when she knows nothing? She understands none of my life, none of what’s been going on these past months, this past year.
Suddenly, my walls begin to crack. I feel my posture slump. I feel a heavy weight that makes my shoulder’s sag, my arms drop to my sides, and my face fall.
“There’s so much I need to tell you,” I say, and this time, my voice comes out faint and small.
And just as I’ve desperately wanted to these last weeks, I launch into an explanation that goes too far.
I tell her about the boys and the wedding and the pregnancy … those things alone enough to overwhelm her already fragile state of mind. But I don’t stop there.
No.
Once I start telling her bits of the truth, the rest of it comes rushing out.
I tell her about the shifters. About the packs. About my own turning.
I should have known what was going to happen next, because with each word I say, my mother’s face goes a shade whiter. I should stop talking.
I shouldn’t have said anything at all to begin with.
I knew this would be too much for her. But I also hoped … I hoped she could be strong enough for me. If not to understand, then at least … to support me.
Because she’s my mom and I needed her to know about all of it because I need her.
When I am done telling her everything, I stand beneath the trees and the waning twilight, staring at her and waiting. I wait for her to tell me that everything will be okay and that she loves me and is here for me.
I wait for her to wrap me in a warm embrace and stroke my hair as she used to do when I was a small girl. I wait for her to tell me that she’s staying now and that she will never go back to my father nor choose him over me ever again.
I knew better than to wait for those things, but I can’t help myself. I want it too badly to give up.
But she doesn’t soften.
“I can’t believe what a mess you’ve gotten yourself into, Sabrina,” she says as she stares at me with wild eyes that don’t know whether to lash out at me or not. “I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
“Mom, please,” I start to say, but she doesn’t listen. My mom doesn’t listen to me.
As always, when faced with the unknown, she crumbles. I watch it before my very eyes.
I watch as she chooses between falling apart and fleeing. And even before she moves away from me, I know which one she’s chosen.