Chapter 4
The last place I went was the cemetery.
Today was the anniversary of my mother's death.
I pressed my cheek against the cold stone. "Mom," I whispered. "I'm here."
I set the flowers down before the stone.
Then I took out the painting and placed it gently onto the fire I'd made.
Next, I pulled out a stack of photos of Ryan.
My fingers traced his face one last time. The face I knew so well, but the man now was a stranger. I dropped them into the flames and watched his features warp and melt.
Everything was gone, reduced to ashes.
The fire consumed the last remnants of my mother, along with every last piece of him I'd kept.
After the abortion, I had no one. I had no family. I had nothing at all.
I opened my phone, and instantly, thousands of messages flooded in.
[I actually bought your story and felt sorry for you. Then you pull a 180 and make me look like a fool. Go to hell, you bitch!]
[Drama queen of the year. Writes your own soap opera and plays us all for fools?]
[So you think we're all idiots? If your head's that messed up, go check yourself into a psych ward!]
There was nothing left for me here.
I took out the knife I'd brought.
I pressed the blade against my wrist and dragged it across.
Blood welled up, bright red against my skin, then dripped onto the cold stone below.
Suddenly, that familiar ringtone shattered the silence.
On the screen, Ryan's name blazed at me, sharp and painful.
*****
Ryan was in the car, half-heartedly scrolling through emails, an apple in his hand.
He picked up a paring knife and began peeling it.
I loved apples. He'd done this for me countless times.
But this time, the blade slipped. A sharp pain shot through his fingertip, and he hissed.
He glanced down. Blood was welling from a shallow cut.
Why was I so off today?
A strange unease crept over him, a nagging feeling that he'd forgotten something important.
He grabbed his phone, hesitated, then dialed.
"Ava?" he called softly.
There was a long pause before a whisper of a sound, barely audible, finally came through. "Mm."
His unease spiked. "Where are you? You don't sound right."
"I'm... home," I managed, my voice sluggish and distant.
Ryan frowned. "What's today? I feel like I'm forgetting something."
He racked his brain, but nothing came to him. "Is it your birthday?"
A soft, hollow laugh escaped me. "You forgot. I stopped celebrating birthdays a long time ago."
I hadn't celebrated since I lost the baby, and he had forgotten again.
Something in my voice was wrong. He could feel it.
Maybe she was still mad.
He relaxed his brow. "Don't worry. I promised your mother I'd always take care of you. That's not going to change."
On the other end, my reply was even fainter. "Mm."
Then the line went dead.
Ryan's heart hammered in his chest.
She was not acting like herself.
"Mr. Hawthorne?" the driver's voice came from the front, catching his eye in the rearview mirror. "We're at the airport. Should I pull in, or turn back?"
*****
After the call, my body was gradually growing cold.
I thought back to the first time I'd seen him.
My mother and I had gone deep into the mountains to paint.
Ryan was trying to arrange a funeral for his grandfather then. He'd gone door to door, begging for help, for anything at all.
I'd just stepped out of the car when he collapsed at my feet. He hadn't eaten in three days.
I begged my mother to help him.
She paid for the funeral. Then she brought him home, enrolled him in school, and covered everything.
From that day on, he put me first. Always. Obsessively.
He knew I was already engaged to someone else, so he kept his feelings hidden. He never crossed that line.
After graduation, when top firms came calling with big salaries, he didn't hesitate. He chose my family's company, even though it was barely hanging on.
The reason was simple: it was the only way he could stay close to me.
He was incredibly talented and quickly rose through the ranks.
Headhunters came knocking with insane offers, but he always turned them down.
Word got around. People started whispering that the Bennett Group's heiress kept the most loyal dog on a very short leash.
I knew, of course, how he felt about me.
But back then, I never got to choose who I married.
If it hadn't been for everything that happened later, he probably would've just stayed by my side, silent and devoted, for the rest of his life.
*****
My mother had spent her whole life in quiet resignation.
She endured the other women, the parade of illegitimate children, and the public shame. She was always quiet.
She would lock herself in her studio for hours, sometimes for entire days.
Her canvases exploded with color. Vivid. Intense. Alive.
But her eyes were always hollow.
I used to resent her silence. I resented that she never fought back.
I blamed her for turning a blind eye to my father's affairs. For making our family a laughingstock.
But now, after ten years trapped in the same mire, after being worn down, after all the love had drained away, I had learned to fight with silence too.
Now I understood. It wasn't weakness. It was the hopeless understanding that there was nothing left to say.
The understanding that no amount of tears or pleading could change someone who no longer loved you.
In the end, silence was all I had left.
My eyelids grew so heavy that I could no longer keep them open.
My consciousness was fading, bit by bit.
The last sliver of light slipped away.
Sorry, Mom.
I finally understood now.
Then, a rush of frantic footsteps skidded to an abrupt halt right beside me.
And a desperate, guttural cry tore through the air as someone screamed, "Ava!"