I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse. I can smell her scent in here, especially on my bed. Like she comes in and sits in here and misses me. She even still has my old bunny, May-May, once my favorite toy. My confidante.
The bunny that absorbed countless tears over the years. As I grew older, I’d started hiding her in my closet, tucking her inside clothes, because my older brothers were assholes and, once I hit eleven, my father especially grew mean about “toughening” me. I knew if any of my brothers got hold of her, they’d destroy her. Several times I’d wished I’d grabbed her when I left, but I forgot her.
I take a shower and that’s when I finally break down, silently crying until I use up all the hot water, which is a major accomplishment in that house.
I dig a T-shirt and shorts out of my dresser and realize Mom moved all my things into my room for me while I was showering.
I wonder if she stood outside my bathroom door and listened to me crying.
Heading downstairs, on my way to the kitchen I detour and snag a brand-new bottle of Tullamore D.E.W. from the cabinet under the wet bar in the living room.
Don’t even grab a glass. Just peel off the foil, pop the stopper, and as I settle at the breakfast bar I tip the bottle up and drink a few large swallows.
Mom looks up from where she’s making me a grilled cheese sandwich at the stove, but she doesn’t speak.
I know she’s making it for me because cooking is one of the few love languages she can freely express without it pissing off my father.
And it was always my favorite meal.
Plus, after one of the countless go-rounds with Dad throughout my life, whether being yelled at for something, scolded, upbraided, insulted—take your pick—Mom always had a grilled cheese sandwich either in progress or waiting for me after.
She didn’t even comment about the booze. I’m certain this bottle was put there by her because I’m the only one in the house who likes it.
Not rich or rare enough for Dad’s tastes, or my brothers’, who of course emulate damned near everything about him.
Funny, you’d think Alphas would find their own path, make their own way. It’s like they’re shitting-bricks scared of the old man and here’s me, a lowly omega, and the youngest by five years behind my next oldest brother, who’s openly defied him for years.
I sit with my fingers wrapped around the bottle’s neck, lightly drumming them on it. When I grabbed it I noticed there were three more under the wet bar, unopened, waiting.
“Thanks for the Tully, Mom,” I quietly say.
She hesitantly smiles. “I went out shopping last night. After he said he found you and was bringing you in.”
Question answered.
When the sandwich is ready—three, actually, cooked on a large, flat, cast-iron griddle—she cuts the flame and plates them, bringing them to me.
“Thanks.” I don’t release the bottle as I pick one up with my other hand and take a bite.
She stands there for several minutes as I slowly chew my way through the first sandwich, savoring the buttery crunch of the toasted bread and the creamy gooeyness of the cheese.
I had missed Mom’s cooking. She’s damned good. I learned some from her, but I could never cook as well as her.
Now I realize she channels her survival into it.
I take a few swallows of the Tully before starting on the second sandwich.
“Lana is very sweet,” Mom quietly says. “She’s not looking to get married. But please don’t say that to anyone else.”
I nod, meeting her grey gaze. I inherited that, thankfully, not my dad’s cold blue eyes. My three brothers inherited his blue eyes.
“She wants to go back to college,” she continues. “To get her doctorate. Your father told her he’d pay for it if she did this.”
I nod again.
“He’s giving you my car,” she adds, her nervous tone skittering across my brain. “It’s only two years old. He’s ordered a new one for me.”
Another nod, another bite of sandwich, another swallow of Tully.
