Chapter Nineteen

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I sit at the kitchen table, a cup of tea in front of me.

How much do I look like my mother? Her skin is more wrinkled. Her hair is shorter and curled tight, though still fully black, because she dyed it once gray hairs started coming in. We are from different generations, different lives, but similar. Too similar.

Sitting here with tea always felt like giving in, like submitting to fate.

What I didn’t understand is that fate does not give a fuck about teacups. It’s going to grab hold of me and shake. Which it did. So now I’m taking the solace where I can find it, which helps me understand her. Perhaps there was a part of her that felt defeated, but there was another part that knew that even a few minutes of peace was worth having.

Though she doesn’t seem peaceful now.

She fidgets with her hands, fingers twisting and turning as if trying to unravel the knots of our shared past. The silence between us is thick, heavy with lingering shadows.

She takes a deep breath. “I need to tell you something.”

I nod, the anticipation knotting in my stomach. I mean, the last time she confessed something it was murder. Even if it was justified, it’s still enough to make me nervous. “Okay, but if it’s a felony, I hope you spiked the tea, because I’m going to need it.”

“I’m not sorry that I unplugged Patrick from life support,” she says, the words hanging in the air like a final judgment. “He needed to be stopped, but I think I might have done it anyway. Even if he would never hit me again. Because he deserved it.”

A sob catches in my throat, but it’s not from sadness.

It’s relief, pure and unfiltered. Justice could be a strange beast. It grabbed hold of Logan’s leg by the teeth while letting my father go free for decades. Then again, I suppose justice wasn’t really some abstract concept. It was just people, in the end. People like Sheriff Dunham and Logan, one obsessed with power, the other with kindness.

And my mother, who found her own closure.

“Mom. Did you think I would judge you for that?”

Banyu’s eyes well up with tears as she continues, her voice cracking under the weight of her confession. “I judge myself. It’s a sin. For years, I endured his abuse. The beatings, the insults… the constant fear that consumed me every single day.”

Her hands shake as she speaks, and I reach out to hold them, grounding her in this moment. “I wish you had talked to me about it before.”

“You were a child,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “I tried to protect you. I know I wasn’t always able to do that.”

I squeeze her hands tighter, offering silent support as my own tears mix with hers. There were times I would never tell her about. Times she would never tell me about. Bruises, both visible and hidden, that we never talked about. A thousand secrets in this house.

Nothing, not even unplugging life support, will unleash them.

Except that the heavy shades have been pulled back.

The windows are cracked open, autumn giving us a cool day as a little treat.

“He told me he would kill you. I was so relieved when you left. Angry. Sad. I missed you, but it also meant you were safe. Finally, safe.”

Tears fill my eyes. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t care if they put me in jail.”

I shudder at the thought of my mom in Sheriff Dunham’s oily clutches. “Well, I care.”

She reaches out, her hand trembling. Her fingers are cold, but they squeeze mine tightly, anchoring us both in this fragile moment. “When I did it, I realized my mistake. That I should have done it years ago. I could have put poison in his coffee. Or used a steak knife on his heart. Or I could have learned to drive and hit him with the truck.”

“Wow, empowerment is really bloodthirsty.”

Tears stream down her cheeks. “I’m sorry for not killing him sooner.”

A sob hitches my breath, but I force it down. Someone’s gotta keep this from turning maudlin. “I appreciate that, but I’m glad you aren’t in jail. And I’m not only talking about the bars in the county jail cell. I’m talking about the one you put yourself in.”

She nods slowly. “Yes. Me, too.”

“I love you,” I say, for probably the first time. We aren’t exactly a cuddly household. She’s never said it to me, either, though I never knew whether that was because of my father’s abuse or whether it was an ingrained cultural stoicism.

Her grip tightens on my hand. “And I you, Sienna.”

So probably the stoicism thing.

I lean over and rest my head on her shoulder, enjoying the warmth of her body against mine. For a moment, everything else fades away—the circus, even the weight of our past. It’s just us, mother and daughter, finding solace in each other’s presence.

This is a turning point for both of us.

Mom’s eyes well up with tears, shimmering in the dim light of our kitchen. I can see the depth of her emotions swirling there—relief, gratitude, love. It’s a sight that breaks my heart and heals it all at once.

Banyu reaches out and cups my face with her trembling hand. “You’ve always been so strong,” she whispers. “Even when I couldn’t be.”

The warmth of her touch melts the last of my defenses. I lean into her hand, closing my eyes for a brief moment of peace. “I learned from you,” I murmur.

“Sienna,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. “Will you still leave?”

I tighten my grip on her hand, grounding us both in this fragile moment. “Yes, but I’ll come back and visit you. I promise.”

As we stand up from the table, she pulls me into a tight embrace. The scent of her familiar perfume wraps around me like a comforting blanket.

For the first time in forever, I feel truly safe in her arms.

“So,” I say, “what if we cracked open that china cabinet?”

She gives me a severe expression. “Sienna.”

“What? I mean, I want to set them free symbolically from their glass prison.”

“You just want to play with them,” she accuses, but there’s no heat.

“We can do both at the same time.”

Despite the levity of the moment, it’s still a surprise when she actually walks to the cabinet filled with delicate porcelain dolls that have watched over us for years.

The dancer who wears a colorful sari in purple and silk from India.

The Mexican doll in a charro outfit with braids in red ribbons.

The little Dutch girl with her basket of tulips and pointed hat.

She takes each doll out, sharing the stories she wove about each one as she hand-sewed their outfits, using books from the library as her guide. I never saw her make one. She never did, after the cabinet was full. And after my father destroyed her hope.

It’s a part of her life that she’s never shared with me. It moves me beyond words to gently touch each face, to stroke their hair, to hold them. I’m finally safe with her—and the reverse is true, as well. That’s what it means for her to share these dolls. That she feels safe with me, too. When we’re done, we place each doll carefully in its place.

Their stories have already been told.

The story they watch through the glass, the one my mother weaves with her own life, is still unfolding. It looks beautiful and bright.