“Would you like to do breakfast tomorrow?”

The refusal sits ready on my tongue, but I swallow it back. I came home in search of some closure, and closure I’m going to get. “Sure, I’d like that.”

I’m about to cross the threshold when my mom asks me to stop. I glance back, our eyes connecting. “You know what I regret the most, Blaire?” Her question comes out as a whisper.

“Yes?” I ask stiffly.

“When I left that first time, you were a little girl of barely six. You came running toward me, tears streaking down your pretty face. You hugged my waist so tightly as you begged me between sobs to take you with me, not to leave you behind. I watched you and felt my heart break. I regret not taking you in my arms and staying for you. But I couldn’t live with your father for another day. It was killing me.”

Anger boils inside me. Now she tells me that? Now? Twenty years too fucking late, Mom. “You know, Mom, have you ever stopped to think what it felt like to me—to your daughter—to watch her mother walk out of the house suitcase in hand, not even bothering to look back at her? What about me, Mom? Did it not matter to you that my heart was breaking, too?” My voice is rising, but I don’t give a shit. “You left Daddy and me behind. And Daddy only got worse after that.”

My mom’s beautiful blue eyes glaze over with tears. “I’m sorry, Blaire. I’m so sorry. I wish that I could go back in time and do it all over again.”

The fight gone out of me, I stare at my mom numbly. “I’m not sure that I can.”

The next morning, I meet with my mom at a small, quaint diner. She’s waiting for me when I arrive. At first, things are very tense. She doesn’t say much and neither do I. We sit staring at our hands or out the window, always avoiding each other’s eyes. The pain is still too tangible. The wounds that never quite healed bleed once more.

She breaks the silence. “Would you like more coffee?”

I look down at my mug, realizing for the first time that it’s empty. “Sure.”

She gets the attention of our waitress and asks for a refill. As the waitress brings the coffee pot over, my mom takes my hand in hers. I find myself torn between wanting to keep it there, relishing the feel of my hand in hers, or withdrawing it.

I keep it there.

“Blaire … there’s something that you need to know.”

I lift my face and our gazes meet. The tone of her voice rings warning bells in my head. “Yes? Does it have to do with Dad?”

She nods, squeezing my hand gently. “Your dad passed away two years ago.”

The restaurant begins to spin around me. I feel faint as everything becomes blurry. There’s an explosion of pain followed by utter grief and sorrow. I am too late, then.

“How did he die?” I manage to ask through the pain.

“It was a massive heart attack,” my mom says sadly.

“Were …” I pause, trying to swallow through the pain. “Were you with him?”

She nods. Then my mom, the woman who I always thought to be the strongest of all, the most beautiful of all, the most heartless of all, breaks down and cries. Sobs are torn from her chest as if someone is ripping them out, as she covers her face with her hands and gives into grief.

Instinctively, my heart tells me to go to her, to lend her my support. However, a lifetime full of hurt and memories stands between us, making me remain seated in my spot as my mom crumbles in front of me. But as I stare at her, a broken woman, my heart wins. Standing up quickly, I move out of my side of the booth and slide into hers. I enfold her in my arms.

My mom’s arms come around me, pulling me closer to her. “He’s gone, Blaire … he’s gone,” she cries. Minutes pass. When my mom is calmer, she lets me go and dries her face with a paper napkin. “There’s so much that I have to tell you about your father and me.”