Part 1Her Own Life

My mother had her awakening after she divorced my father.

Her new life, she declared, would be dedicated to loving herself.

So she went to music festivals, flew to Cabo for girls’ weekends, and backpacked through Europe. She’d be gone for weeks, sometimes a month.

What she seemed to forget was that the year of her great awakening, I was only five.

Just a little girl who knew only how to stand in a dark house and cry for her mom.

* * *

I was in the middle of planning a graduation trip to Greece with my best friend, Chloe, when my mother’s name flashed on my screen.

She told me she’d been in a car accident. She said she needed me.

Her voice was thin and reedy, laced with a guilt that felt entirely foreign. But I didn’t hesitate.

“Oh, wow. That’s tough,” I said, my tone breezy. “But my flight is in two days.”

I paused, for effect. “Look, just… hang in there. I’ll be back in six months, we can talk then.”

After I hung up, Chloe looked at me, her brow furrowed. “Are you sure you don’t want to postpone?”

I shook my head, turning back to the half-packed suitcase on my bed. “Nope. No need.”

“But, Mia… that’s your mom.”

I offered her a tight smile and said nothing.

For years, every messenger she sent started with that exact line. She’s your mother. She gave birth to you. They’d tell me we were the closest two people on earth could be, that there was no wound too deep to forgive.

The closest two people on earth.

I used to believe that ridiculous idea, back when I was a child. It’s why, when my parents fought over custody, I chose her without a second’s thought. I thought she’d be the one to hold my hand while I grew up.

That belief shattered on my fifth birthday, during a trip to Disneyland she’d begrudgingly agreed to. We were in a restaurant when we saw him—my father, remarried.

The moment she spotted him, my mother was in the middle of snapping at me, shoving her backpack onto the stroller with a huff.

“Mia, do you have any idea how much stuff I have to lug around just for you? This is the last time you beg me to come to this place, you hear me—”

Her words choked off.

My dad was sitting with a tall woman, both of them smiling so wide their eyes crinkled. Between them sat a little boy.

For a second, I froze. Then, a joyful, instinctive cry of “Daddy!” started to form on my lips.

Before it could escape, my mother’s fingers dug into my hand. Her nails felt like tiny daggers pressing into my skin.

I looked up at her, my eyes welling with tears. “Mommy, that hurts,” I whimpered.

She didn’t hear me. She was lost in her own world, her gaze locked on my father. I watched as her eyes turned red. The moment a tear escaped her eye and traced a path down her cheek, my own tears started to fall. I buried my face in her leg, tugging on her hand. “It’s okay, Mommy. I’m here. Don’t cry.”

Her gaze dropped to me, a single tear landing on my face.

It was ice cold.

She reached out and touched my face, her fingers tracing a slow path from my forehead to my chin. Every inch, measured and deliberate.

Then, her voice changed.

“I never noticed before,” she whispered, her tone hollow. “You look just like him.”

She stared at me, but I knew she wasn't seeing me anymore.

“He was a monster. I wonder if you’ll grow up to be just as disgusting.”

I stared up at her, at the raw grief in her eyes, and didn’t understand. I just knew that the way she was looking at me sent a spike of terror through my small body. A sob broke from my chest.

But my mother just wiped her own tears away, pried my fingers from her dress, and walked away.

She left my cries behind her, as decisively as if she were leaving me behind.

After that day, everything changed.

The morning pancakes disappeared. I learned to wait, my stomach aching, until she finally decided to get out of bed. Sometimes, when the hunger was too much, I’d fill my belly with cup after cup of cold tap water.

I never dared to ask why there was no breakfast.

I never dared to ask why she always looked at me with that strange, cold expression.

I just tried to be quiet. I tried to be invisible.

Until one afternoon, I was playing with a puzzle in my room, my stomach growling, when a sharp, pungent smell drifted through the door. I covered my nose and ran out.

My mother was just coming out of the kitchen, carrying a steaming plate. When she saw me, her face split into a brilliant, unnerving smile.

“You’re awake! Come, try Mommy’s new recipe.”