She nodded quickly, like she was grateful I’d said the word for her. “Yes. I wasn’t proud of everything, but—”
“But you got comfortable,” I said, and my voice stayed calm even as something in me tightened. “You weren’t surviving for twenty-six years. You were comfortable. And comfort mattered more than me.”
She flinched as if I’d slapped her. Tears slipped down her cheeks.
I didn’t feel triumphant. I didn’t feel cruel. I felt tired. Like I’d been carrying a weight so long I’d forgotten what my shoulders looked like without it.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” she whispered. “I just… I needed you to know I’d be affected.”
It landed exactly how she intended: not as a request, but as a quiet attempt to place responsibility in my hands.
I walked to the kitchen, poured two glasses of water, and handed her one. “Liam signed a contract,” I said. “Actions have consequences.”
She nodded again, helpless. “I know.”
“Then that’s all there is.”
She sat a few more minutes, trying to make small talk, then finally stood.
At the door, she looked back at me. “He’s panicking,” she said. “Ruby… she quit her job.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“She said she needed to find herself.”
I let out a short breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Of course.”
My mother’s face tightened. “And… there’s something else.”
I waited.
“She’s pregnant,” Mom said.
The word hung in the air between us, heavy and bright at the same time.
I didn’t respond right away. My first thought wasn’t about the baby. It was about the timing, about how the family always revealed information like a bargaining chip when they wanted something.
Mom watched me carefully. “Eleven weeks.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” I asked.
She looked away. “Things have been… tense.”
Tense. Like I was the problem.
She left a few minutes later, and when the door clicked shut, I stood there in the quiet again. My phone buzzed once. A missed call from Liam.
Then another.
Then another.
Part 3
Two days after my mother’s visit, Liam showed up at my apartment.
He must’ve gotten my address from her, because I’d never invited him here. He stood in the hallway outside my door like he belonged there, wearing a tight smile and the kind of nervous energy people wear when they’re about to ask for something big.
“Bro,” he said when I opened the door. “Can we talk?”
I didn’t step aside. “You’re talking.”
He laughed, like I’d made a joke. “Okay, come on. Don’t be like that.”
“Like what?”
“Cold,” he said, and his smile slipped. “You’re being cold.”
I leaned against the doorframe. “You called me the help.”
He waved a hand. “It was a joke. Ruby had too much to drink. Everyone was joking around.”
I stared at him. “Was it a joke when you didn’t invite me to Christmas dinner?”
His face tightened.
“Was it a joke when you told Nicole I wasn’t really family?”
He blinked, and I saw it—the moment he realized I had receipts and I was done pretending I didn’t.
He tried to recover, voice turning smooth. “You’re blowing things out of proportion.”
“Am I?” I asked. “Was it out of proportion when you told people I preferred being alone? When you let them believe I was the one choosing not to come?”
He exhaled sharply, frustration leaking through. “This mortgage thing is going to ruin me.”
“That sounds like a you problem,” I said.
His jaw flexed. “Seriously? After everything?”
I almost smiled at the irony. “After everything? You mean after I used my credit score to get you a house and then moved your furniture for nine hours?”
He stepped closer, anger rising. “You’re jealous. That’s what this is. You’ve always been jealous.”
Jealous. The word Vince had taught him. The word the family used to explain away my existence when it got inconvenient.
“I’m not jealous,” I said quietly. “I’m done.”
Liam’s eyes flashed. “You’re punishing me for stuff that wasn’t my fault.”
I nodded once. “Some of it wasn’t. But a lot of it was. And you’ve never had to pay for any of it.”