“Good.”
Mom looked at me, but she said nothing.
The years that followed did not repair what had broken between us.
By high school, I had become skilled at avoiding serious conversations. Mom and I spoke about grades, chores, and what time I would be home. We did not speak about Dad. We never spoke about Dorian.
The moment I graduated, I moved three hours away.
At first, I came home for holidays. Then I began making excuses.
Work was busy.
The roads were bad.
I could not afford the trip.
Mom called every Sunday, but I sometimes let the phone ring until it stopped.
I told myself I was protecting my peace.
The truth was harder.
Part of me was still the little girl in the kitchen, watching her mother carry an apple pie to someone else.
Twenty years after Dorian first appeared behind our house, a hospital nurse called me at work.
My mother had suffered a severe stroke.
“You should come as soon as possible,” the nurse said.
I drove through the afternoon without stopping.
When I reached the hospital, Mom looked smaller than I remembered. Machines surrounded her bed, and one side of her face had gone still.
I sat beside her and took her hand.
“I’m here, Mom.”
Her eyes moved toward me.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I should’ve come home more.”
Her fingers tightened faintly.
I told her I would take care of everything. The house. The bills. Whatever she needed.
She tried to speak.
I leaned closer.
“Don’t abandon Dorian.”
I pulled back.
“What?”
Her breathing became uneven.
“Promise me.”
Anger rose before grief could stop it.
Dorian had not visited her. He was not beside her bed. As far as I knew, he had disappeared twenty years earlier.
Yet she was using her final strength to speak his name.
“Where is he, Mom?”
Her lips moved, but no sound came.
