✭ ᴛʀᴏᴜʙʟᴇ ✭

Heart To Heart

A week later

A soft knock at the front door broke through the quiet.

I frowned. I wasn't expecting anyone.

I walked over, cautious, and looked through the peephole.

My breath caught in my throat.

She looked older. Tired. Like time had caught up with her in the worst ways. Her hair was longer, streaked with gray, and her eyes I used to stare into when I couldn't sleep looked worn down by something heavier than regret.

I opened the door just enough to stand in the gap.

"...Mom?"

She let out a shaky breath, like the sound alone cracked her open. "Hi, sweetheart."

I didn't move.

She glanced down, then back up, wringing her hands. "I... I saw the photos. The articles. Your face is everywhere." She laughed nervously. "You look just like me when I was your age."

"I don't remember you being around when I was my age."

The words came out sharper than I expected. Her eyes flinched.

"I deserve that," she said quietly. "I do."

I crossed my arms over my chest, leaning against the doorframe. "What do you want?"

"I want to talk. Just... talk. Maybe explain things. Maybe hear about your life..if you'll let me."

I hated how her voice still had the power to soften parts of me I'd locked away.

"You left," I said, quieter now. "When things got hard. When I got hard to love."

Tears pooled in her eyes, but I didn't look away this time.

"I was scared. Selfish. I thought you'd be better off with anyone but me," she said. "But not a day's gone by where I didn't wish I could undo it."

I blinked, a lump growing in my throat.

"You don't get to just show up when things get interesting," I said. "Now that my name's in headlines. Now that people are finally paying attention."

"I'm not here because of the headlines." Her voice broke. "I'm here because you're still my daughter."

Silence hung between us like fog thick, unmoving.

Part of me wanted to slam the door.

Another part smaller, quieter wanted to invite her in. Even just for a minute.

"I'm not the same girl you left behind," I said finally.

"I know," she whispered. "But maybe you'll let me meet the woman you've become."

I stood there for a long moment.

Then, wordlessly, I stepped aside.

She walked in slowly, like she wasn't sure the floor would hold her weight.

And just like that, the past was in the room with us unspoken, raw, and waiting.

She walked in slowly, her steps uncertain, like each one might make me change my mind.

I closed the door behind her and stood there for a second, arms crossed, the silence between us stretching thin.

My mom looked around the living room, her eyes tracing the tall windows, the framed photos, the faint smell of perfume still lingering in the air. "It's beautiful here," she said softly.

I didn't respond. I moved toward the kitchen, grabbed two glasses of water, and handed her one.

She took it like it was sacred.

"I saw the picture," she began, sitting on the edge of the couch. "You were... incredible. So poised. So grown."

I sat in the chair across from her, keeping the coffee table like a border between us. "It wasn't supposed to be incredible. It was damage control."

She nodded. "Still... the world's paying attention now. And you handled it with grace."

Something in her voice felt off. Too practiced. Like she'd rehearsed these compliments before showing up.

I sipped my water, eyes narrowing slightly. "Why now?"

She looked surprised. "I told you. I wanted to see you. Talk to you."

"No," I said. "Why now, after all these years?"

She hesitated. "Because I thought you hated me."

"I did," I said. "Sometimes I still do."

She flinched again, but her hands stayed folded neatly in her lap.

"I know I can't take back what I did," she said. "But maybe I can... make it right. Be there for you now. Help you. Especially now that everything's happening so fast."

There it was again that slight shift. I leaned forward, watching her.

"Help me?"

She nodded, eyes brightening just a little too much. "Yes. I mean, there are ways to... structure things. Protect your image. Get ahead of the next wave. A book deal, maybe. Or a mother-daughter profile in People. The industry loves a redemption arc."

My stomach dropped.

She didn't even realize what she'd just said. Or maybe she did.

"Wow," I said, laughing bitterly. "You really came back for a headline."

Her expression twisted. "No, I came back for you. But if there's a way to—"

"To what?" I snapped. "Leech off my life? Be the mother of the year for press?"

Her mouth opened, but she didn't deny it. Not really.

"You don't even know who I am anymore," I said. "And you're already trying to turn me into a paycheck."

"I'm just trying to help—"

"Help yourself."

We stared at each other. For a moment, she looked like she might cry again. But I didn't care this time.

I stood up.

"You can leave now."

"Y/N—"

"Now."

She rose slowly, the glass of water still in her hand, her lips trembling.

"I made mistakes," she whispered, her voice desperate now. "But I love you. I always have."

"Then you should've stayed," I said coldly. "Or at the very least, come back when it wasn't convenient."

She lingered in the doorway like she was waiting for a change of heart. I said nothing.

Finally, she stepped outside, and I shut the door behind her firm, final.

My legs felt heavy as I walked back into the living room. I sank into the couch and stared at the wall, a mix of rage and sorrow burning in my chest.

Not even her leaving again hurt as much as the reason she came back in the first place.

Fame. Not me.