She smiles sadly, squeezing my hand comfortingly. I raise hers to my lips and kiss it before standing up. I carry our empty plates to the sink just as Sonya returns from inside the house.
“Oh great! You’re both finished with breakfast,” she says. “I’ll clean the kitchen and be on my way.”
“Cool. I’ll make us tea in the meantime.” Approaching me, Iris softly asks, “Do you want coffee, love?”
“I’ll have tea too.”
I meet her halfway as she stretches on her toes to kiss me. I pay no mind to Sonya, who I can feel watching us.
Iris skips to the stove. Both of them get busy, while I’m back at the dining table and reading the newspaper. I’m a distracted mess, though, even after the women join me and we sip on our tea. Iris keeps up the small talk.
“Thanks for the tea, sweetie,” Sonya says to Iris. “It’s always lovely to talk to you.”
Rising, she grabs our cups and goes back into the kitchen. Quickly rinsing them off and cleaning the counter again, she waves at us and turns toward the exit.
“You’re forgetting something,” I call out to her.
She turns around, frowning. “I don’t think so. My bag is—”
“This.” I slap the old diary on the counter with a thud. “Look familiar,Mom?”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Kian
She goes pale, staring unblinking at her personal diary like it’s a ghost come to life.
Perhaps it is.
She looks terrified, yet she’s been walking around boldly around the biggest ghost of her past—her son, whom she abandoned.
Iris’s palm brushes over my thigh and rubs underneath the table, providing me her silent support as well as keeping me from verbally attacking my mother.
Even calling her that in my head brings a wave of fury.
All the emotions I had been compartmentalizing are waiting to be unleashed. Old wounds never heal.
I have to commend her acting skills. A normal woman would let the mask slip for a lingering breath while sitting across from her son and casually sipping on tea. For a whole year, she’s evaded confronting me. It makes sense why she left in a rush the one time we ran into each other before Iris appeared in my life.
None of this should come as a shock since she had an affair with a married man. She must’ve given the performance of a lifetime back then too. Deceit is part of who she is.
“I’m sure you’ll like it back,” I sneer, pointing to the diary. “Seeing as you need to refresh your memory and remember I’m the son you left behind with a neglectful father.”
“I… It…” she stutters, her face going ashen.
The years haven’t been kind to her. She’s nothing like the vibrant woman I saw in the picture from all those years ago when she worked for my father. In it, her eyes matched mine. Right now, they’re black. Has she been wearing lenses to disguise her identity? Why is she working as a maid? Is she poor or was it a tactic to become a part of my life?
“Sonya,” murmurs Iris, as the woman looks ready to faint. “Please sit down.”
“How—how did you—”
“So you’re not denying you’re my mother?”
“I didn’t abandon you,” she cries suddenly, snapping out of the fearful state. “I wouldneverabandon you. He threatened me and kicked me out of the city.”
“Why would my father do that? He never wanted me, said you dumped me at his doorstep.”
She shakes her head. “Not Rakesh, Roshan Singhania.”
