Motherless

45

Dinner smelled like heaven. Garlic bread, spaghetti, and the sweet scent of brownies baking in the oven filled the kitchen. Mom had music playing softly in the background something jazzy, old-school and she kept humming as she twirled her fork through the noodles.

It felt normal. Safe. Warm.

Mom was in her element, grinning as she talked with her hands. "I can't wait for your sweet sixteen, sweetheart. It's going to be perfect. We'll have food, lights, maybe even a photo booth! I already found this gorgeous dress that'll look amazing on you—oh, and—"

"Mom," I said, laughing. "You're more excited than I am."

"Of course I am!" she said, eyes shining. "You're turning sixteen. That's big. And you deserve a day that's just about you. No stress. No sadness. Just joy."

Her words made me smile... but also stirred something deep and heavy inside me. Something I'd been pushing down for months.

"Actually," I said, my voice smaller than I meant it to be, "speaking of my birthday... there's something I wanted to ask."

Mom's fork froze halfway to her mouth. "Okay..." she said slowly. "What is it, baby?"

I took a breath. "I want to see her."

The silence that followed was thick heavy enough to make my throat tighten.

Mom blinked, setting her fork down carefully. "Who do you mean?"

I looked down at my plate. "My other mom."

Her chair creaked softly as she straightened up. "Talia..."

"I just want to ask her why," I said quickly, before she could cut me off. "I want to know what I did wrong. Why she—" My voice cracked. "Why she hurt me."

Mom's face changed. It wasn't the usual soft, loving expression I was used to. Her eyes darkened, jaw tightening, the smile gone completely.

"No," she said flatly.

I froze. "What?"

"I said no," she repeated, sharper now. "Absolutely not."

The sound of her voice the finality in it made my chest ache. "Mom, please—"

"Talia, no!" she snapped, louder this time. Then immediately shut her eyes, like she was trying to reel it back in. "No," she said again, quieter but still firm. "You don't need to see that woman. You don't need her in your life. Not after everything she's done."

"She's still my mom," I said, tears stinging my eyes before I could stop them.

"She gave up that title the day she hurt you," she said, voice trembling now. "She doesn't deserve to see you, not after the hell she put you through."

"But I deserve answers!" I cried. "You don't understand—"

"I do understand!" Her voice broke then, raw and full of emotion. "I understand better than you think. Because I'm the one who sat with you through the nightmares. The one who held you while you screamed in your sleep. The one who watched you flinch when someone so much as raised their voice."

She pressed a hand to her chest, her voice shaking. "And I can't let that woman break you again."

I stared at her, completely still.

I'd never seen her angry before. Not like this.

Not with tears in her eyes and fear in her voice.

For a moment, all I could do was stare at my plate, the spaghetti gone cold, the room so quiet I could hear my heartbeat.