“You think he wants you?” she said. “You think this touching little reunion will last? He wants the idea of a daughter. Not you. Not the reality. You are difficult, Holly. You are needy. You exhaust people. Eventually, he will see it too.”
For one heartbeat, I was ten years old again.
Standing in a hallway while my mother told me I was hard to love.
Then Gerald’s hand closed around mine.
Not gripping.
Grounding.
“I have seen enough,” he said.
My mother looked at our joined hands.
Something broke in her face.
She turned, putting her sunglasses back on.
“Fine.”
Claire followed, still crying.
At the car, my mother paused.
“You will need us someday.”
I looked at her.
Maybe once, that would have frightened me.
Now it sounded like a curse from someone whose magic had expired.
“No,” I said. “I needed you at 2:14 a.m.”
She had no answer.
She got into the car.
The sedan backed out of the driveway and disappeared down the road.
The wind chimes sang softly above us.
My knees nearly gave out.
Gerald caught me before I fell.
“I’ve got you,” he said.
And he did.
Recovery was slow.
Not the poetic kind of slow. The ugly kind.