UNTIL I FOUND YOU , sturniolo triplets !

class of 2013 , matt

❝ you don't have to be sorry for leaving and growing up . . .
matilda, harry styles

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cw: unhappy family dynamics, mentions of self-harm, mentions of abuse
! hurt/comfort
it's been a while, hasn't it! enjoy these 2.4k words of motherly angst

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"mom?" you ask, cracking open the bathroom door. she's been in there a bit too long. you are twelve years old, and it is 2:45 am.

"stay out, y/n," your mom demands from inside. her voice is uneven.

"mom?" you ask again, opening the door further.

"i said stay out, y/n."

you pause for a minute, and you then open the door.

"mom?" all you see is red. a bloody hand slaps across your face, and the door is slammed shut.

two weeks later, it happens again.

two more weeks. again.

three months. again.

it's been a year. again.

you are eighteen. again.

you blink.

the walls are decorated with signs from hobby lobby, and the floor is a brown, scruffy rug that smells of dirt and memories. the ceiling is peeling apart, the bed is unmade, and the ceiling fan is covered in cobwebs. empty picture frames litter the nightstands, and forgotten cups lie empty on the ground.

it is quiet, and the silence sounds like a home that you've forgotten.

you don't know how long it's been since you've been here, just that it's been a long time and that nobody alive has been there since you have. someone living. no one alive.

slowly, you step inside and peer around the room. it's sad, and it's nostalgic, and that's okay, because those emotions often coexist. matt stands behind you and waits in the doorway as you walk around, dragging your feet along the carpet.

"i can't believe she let it get like this," you say, picking up a pair of pants left on the floor, covered in dust and filled with ghosts. "i wish she'd've asked for help."

"you know she would never have done that," matt says from the doorway. "she's your mother."

"she should've known it would be okay."

"would you ever ask her for help?"

you remain silent. "there's something to think about, huh?" he remarks.

you choose not to think about it.

it's been three days since your mother was omitted to a care home. you can't quite get yourself to say "psych ward," because that doesn't feel right-your mother is not insane. she is simply sad. she needs help. she's getting it, now.

you lay the pants down on the bed and beg yourself to cry. you find that you cannot, and so you choose anger instead.

"she's an asshole," you say.

"y/n, she's sick," matt begins, but you interrupt him.

"she was my mother."

"she is your mother, and she did what she could-"

"jesus, matt, who's side are you on, here?"

"nobody's," matt says, keeping his voice level because he knows how you get, and he knows that you are always ready to fight, and he knows that your anger leads to tears and that your tears are interminable because they are so rare. "i'm not on anyone's side. i'm not going to pick a side between my aching girlfriend and her helpless mother."