Chapter 12
My mother did not die when I was eight.
Not immediately.
That was the first truth.
She left.
I had been told pneumonia took her quickly.
Closed funeral.
No viewing.
Same methods repeat because they work.
I stared at Lydia.
“You told me she died.”
“She did.”
“When?”
“Years later.”
My chest tightened.
Claire took my hand.
I let her.
“Why did she leave?”
Lydia’s face hardened.
“She wanted to take you.”
Silence.
My mother, Evelyn Bellrose, had grown tired of the family.
The violence.
The expectation that I would be trained early.
She wanted out.
My father refused.
Lydia intervened.
She told Evelyn if she tried to take me, the family would claim she was unstable and I would never see her again.
Eventually my mother left alone.
I grew up believing she died loving me.
Maybe she did.
But she lived somewhere without me for years.
“Did she try to contact me?”
No answer.
I stood.
“Did she?”
Lydia looked away.
That was enough.
“How many times?”
“Several.”
Claire closed her eyes.
Of course.
Same pattern.
My mother.
Claire.
Ella.
Sophie.
Separate the person.
Control the messages.
Narrate the absence.
Make the remaining person believe abandonment.
Then call the wound character-building.
I laughed softly.
Nothing about it was funny.
“You did this to me first.”
Lydia lifted her chin.
“And you became strong.”
There.
The justification.
I looked at her.
“No.”
“I became useful.”
Her face changed.
Because Vincent’s recording had used the same distinction.
The version of Dominic the family wanted.
No wife.
No daughters.
No mother.
No person whose love might compete with command.
Claire squeezed my hand.
I looked at her.
“I believed you left because you were weak.”
She did not look away.
“I believed you let me go because I was disposable.”
Both lies.
Built from the same family machine.
Ella entered carrying Sophie on her hip with Rafe beside her.
I frowned.
“She wanted Mommy.”
Claire took the baby.
Ella looked at Lydia.
“Is she the bad lady?”
Nobody spoke.
Children again.
I crouched.
“She did bad things.”
Ella considered.
“Can she still be family?”
The question hurt.
I looked at Lydia.
Then my daughter.
“Yes.”
Ella frowned.
“That’s weird.”
I almost smiled.
“Yes.”
Family was not innocence.
Not authority.
Not automatic access.
May you like
Just relation.
Everything else had to be earned.
