Chapter 24

The shrill ringof my phone pierces the quiet of my apartment. I glance at the caller ID and freeze, my breath catching. It's the same unknown number that's been calling for the past couple of weeks but hasn't left a voicemail.

Who is it?

Lately I've been getting too many of those telemarketers that make me want to return my phone or buy something. All of them leave a message. Not this number.

Annoyed, I swipe to answer, ready to unleash a bit of harmless pranking.

"Yes?" I say, my tone edged with feigned cheeriness and politeness.

"Ameline," a female voice says softly on the other side of the line. "Amy, it's Mom."

Amy?

Mom?

My heart feels like it skips a beat, then hammers in my chest. It's been over fourteen years since I've heard that voice, since she divorced Dad and vanished from our lives.Since anyone's called me Amy.

"Oh, uh . . . hello there," I manage to say, though I'm surprised at the steadiness in my tone.

There's a brief, awkward pause. She clears her throat. "How are you, sweetie?"

The endearment feels foreign yet comfortingly familiar. My mind spins as I grasp for words and the magnitude of this call.

And of course the questions begin to swirl. Why is she calling after so long? I have so many questions racing through me. Why did she leave us? But I don't ask.

As casually as I can, I say, "I'm alright. Just studying for finals and all that."

"That's wonderful," she says, a wistful longing in her tone that makes my chest clench.

Silence again. I clutch the phone, willing her to speak, to explain.

"This is a surprise," I finally say, filling the void. "After all these years, I started to wonder if I'd ever hear from you again."

Is that even true? I haven't thought about her in years. But she doesn't need to know that. I should call Izzy, ask her if she's heard from her. Maybe this call happens when we turn twenty and are old enough to understand why she left.

"Umm, well, that's actually why I was calling," she responds, her voice wavering slightly with what sounds like nervousness. "I'd love to see you. Maybe we could meet up sometime soon? Catch up over a meal?"

My chest constricts. Fourteen years of absence, and she thinks it can all be wrapped up neatly in a lunch date—or dinner. I want to scream, demand answers, but my voice remains eerily calm. Do I even want to see her after all this time?

"I'll have to think about it," I murmur with uncertainty.

Inside, a whirlpool of emotions swirl tumultuously, each thought colliding against the next. Doubt intertwines with curiosity, fear mingles with a desperate need for answers, and a deep-seated longing for understanding battles with the instincts of protecting my heart from her. The woman who abandoned me when I was just a little girl.

"Of course." There's a tinge of disappointment in her tone.

What did she expect? That I'd be overjoyed because she suddenly decided to remember I exist?

She says, "Take your time. But I'd really love to reconnect, Ameline. I've missed you, sweet girl."

Missed me? The irony of her words nearly chokes me. If she truly missed me, wouldn't she have reached out sooner? Years ago, not now, when it was convenient for her. The urge to lash out, to unleash years of pent-up feelings, is overwhelming.

"I should go," is all I trust myself to say.

"Of course," she repeats, dejected. "If you change your mind, I'll be here. This is my number and . . . well, I really want to see you soon, baby girl."

Her words of endearment feel completely false, ringing hollow in my ears. The urgency in her words soon bugs me. And funnily enough, I think I would rather hear Helen use those terms of endearment than her—the woman who left us without a backward glance. But instead of lashing out, we simply exchange polite goodbyes.

As soon as I hang up the phone, I bury my face in my hands with a shaky exhale. All the emotions she evoked continue swirling within me. I feel somehow alone and lost after her call. I need to talk to someone about it. Dissect every word she said and every word I didn't dare to speak out.

I scroll through my contacts. My finger lingers on the name of the one person I know I can always count on, no matter what.

Gabe.

My finger hovers over his name for too many seconds, second guessing my next move until I stop myself. I can't run to him with my problems. It's not fair. Taking a deep breath, I continue scrolling until I find Izzy's number instead.

She picks up on the third ring. "Hey, Sis, what's up?"

"Izzy . . ." My voice catches, and I swallow hard. "Guess who just called me?"

"Gabe to declare his love for you?" she jokes.

I give a humorless laugh. "No, Izzy, this isn't about Gabe. I'm serious."

"Okay, you're scaring me a bit." Her tone shifts and there's an edge of concern in it. "What happened?"

"Mom. Mom called me," I mumble bitterly, old wounds reopening inside me.

Silence on the other end. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing back the angry tears burning behind my lids—the resentment and sadness swelling up. Still, Izzy says nothing.

"She called out of the blue," I repeat when she doesn't respond, hoping to prompt her. "Said she wants to ‘reconnect' or something like that. No pressure, but soon."

I hear Isadora exhale slowly. "Wow. That's . . . I don't even know what to say."

"Neither do I," I admit. Inside I'm a roiling sea of doubt and confusion, waves of emotion threatening to pull me under. Has our mother tried to contact her as well? What could she possibly want from us now after all these years?

Of course, I have to ask her. At least someone has to give me a few answers. Izzy has always been up front with me. From everyone, she's been the one person that is the closest to me. "So, has she contacted you too?"

Another heavy silence follows before Izzy says firmly, "Don't respond, Amy. Don't reach out. She doesn't get to just waltz back into our lives after all this time."

I nibble my lip, conflicted. Izzy is right, but . . . "But don't you want answers? To know why she left, where she's been all these years?" I ask pleadingly.

"She made her choice to abandon Dad and us. Nothing else matters," Izzy states bluntly. "It's not worth digging up the past or old wounds. Not when we're finally healing."

But are we really healing? I wonder silently. Were we ever truly better, or have we just grown accustomed to the absence, the void she left behind? Isadora's words sound rehearsed, as if she's trying to convince herself as much as me.

"I know you, Ameline. You want answers, closure. But she won't give that to you," Isadora adds, her tone taking on a warning edge. "And Dad . . . he definitely won't be happy if he finds out about this call."

Dad is never happy. He's going from one wife to the other. Izzy . . . Well, I really don't know much about her life in Oregon. We don't speak much about the past or her present. She always tries to keep all the attention on me. That's quite odd and something we need to discuss later. Maybe she thinks I'm too young to understand her troubles.

There has to be a way to make her understand that we can be equals. She can trust me. I need a sister and a friend, too. It's not like I don't have friends, but I would give everything to be closer to her. It's not like I'm looking for a mother figure in her but . . . I swipe at a rogue tear, taking a shaky, steadying breath.

These are just thoughts and doubts brought by the sudden appearance of my mother. I shouldn't allow her to break her way into my heart and mind and let her wreak havoc in my world.

"Have you told Dad?" Izzy asks gently.

I shake my head before letting out a breath. "No. I don't know how he'll react. He's never once mentioned or spoken about her after she left."

"Good. Keep it that way." Her tone leaves no room for argument. "The less he knows, the better."

I exhale, a futile attempt to release the tension that's coiled inside me since the call. But Izzy's words don't bring the comfort I need. The thought of confronting my mother, of finally facing the past, refuses to leave my mind. I squeeze my eyes shut as a headache begins to form, a dull throb at the temples.

Realizing I can't continue the conversation, I force out, "Thanks, Izzy. I'll call you later, okay?"

"Of course, I'm always here for you," she responds, her voice filled with concern.

As I end the call, I'm left alone with my spinning thoughts and the building pressure of an oncoming headache. The idea of seeing my mother again after all these years, along with worrying about my dad's reaction and my own messy feelings—it's too much. It feels overwhelming.

I sit very still, the silence of the room making my thoughts seem even louder. Part of me knows I should take this chance to confront my past. But it also scares me.

I try to steady my uneven breathing, pressing my hands together to stop them from shaking. Questions keep popping up in my head like, "Why now?" and "Why even reach out at all?" One side of me wants to see her. Let her explain. But the other side is surprisingly angry, even when after all these years I said it didn't matter, that I never missed having a mother or felt anything for her after her abandonment.

With a long exhale, I lower my head into my hands, fingertips pressed to my temples where the headache pounds. I just need time—to think this over, and figure out if I'm ready to reopen this old wound. The choice that lands in my lap feels crushingly heavy. Almost too much to handle alone right now.