Chapter 9

I turned my back on Caitlin. "So, you won."

"No, Leila, I didn't..." Caitlin stammered.

"You got Roderick to stand up for you, and I lost my eye. Isn't that a win for you?" I said.

Caitlin was at a loss for words.

"Take your soup and leave." I opened the door. "And don't ever come back."

Caitlin stumbled away.

I closed the door and leaned against it.

Actually, I lied.

I hated her.

I hated her so much; I wanted her to experience what it was like to be blind.

But I wouldn't do that.

Because I didn't want to turn into someone like her.

There were still two weeks left until the exhibition.

I had finished five paintings, each created from the perspective of someone who could only see with one eye.

Some people said they looked weird, others said they were very distinctive.

I didn't care what anyone else thought.

Roderick came by again.

This time, he brought Maeve Wilcox, his mom, with him.

"Leila," Maeve said, grabbing my hand, her eyes red from crying. "You've been through so much, sweetheart."

I was at a loss for words.

Maeve had always treated me like I was her own daughter.

"Maeve," I murmured.

"It's all Roderick's fault," Maeve said, shooting him a glare. "I've already scolded him."

Roderick stood off to the side, head down, not saying a word.

"Sweetheart, get back together with him," Maeve pleaded. "Roderick knows he was wrong."

"Maeve, this isn't something that can be fixed by admitting mistakes," I said.

"But you've been together for more than ten years."

"Precisely because it's been more than ten years, it hurts even more."

Maeve looked like she wanted to say more, but I gently pulled my hand away.

"Maeve, I'm really okay now. You don't have to worry about me," I said.

"But your eye..." Maeve said.

"I'm used to it now," I replied.

Roderick finally spoke up. "Mom, let's go."

Before they left, Maeve slipped an envelope with some cash into my hand.

"This is to help with your medical bills. Please, just take it," she said.

I had no choice but to accept it.

Roderick walked to the door, then turned back to look at me. "I heard about your exhibition."

I didn't say anything.

"You got this," he said.

With that, he left.

I closed the door and opened the envelope.

Inside, besides the cash, was a note.

It read: [I'm sorry.] It was Roderick's handwriting.

I threw the note straight into the trash can.

What good was an apology?

Could my eye recover?