“I’ll find somewhere to live where you and Noah can come any time,” she says, her voice trembling. “I should have gotten a place of my own years ago.” Her eyes fill with tears, and I wish again that I could have saved her from the heartache of the truth. “I never want to fail you again,” she whispers, and the words tug on a loose thread inside me, unraveling emotions I keep locked up tight.
This has been such a hard year. My stepfather disappeared and was murdered—his dirty business dealings finally came back to get him. My stepbrother, Colton, was the prime suspect in the investigation, and as a result, I found myself coming forward and admitting that my stepfather sexually abused me for years.
As a teenager, I kept busy so I wouldn’t have to be close to him. If I wasn’t at a sporting event or volunteering with one of my groups, I was at a party like the one Brayden rescued me from that night—drinking and trying to prove my worth by giving myself to any guy who slid a compliment my way. When I left for college, I did everything I could to never return to Nelson’s house. I took internships and school trips and shitty summer jobs—anything to keep myself out of my stepfather’s reach. But the summer I graduated from college, I came home before starting graduate school, and one night he got drunk and held me down.
For almost five years, I hid the results of that night from everyone in Jackson Harbor but my mother. But even though my mother knew I was pregnant, she didn’t know the child was Nelson’s until last month. Before then, I’d let her believe Noah was the result of a drunken night between me and Colton, and she believed I was keeping Noah a secret in order to shield my child from Colton’s addictions. I spent years lying to her and hiding from everyone else, just to protect her.
My eyes burn and my throat thickens. I squeeze her arm. “It wasn’t your fault, Mom.”
She opens her mouth to reply and is cut off by the sound of tiny feet racing down the attic stairs.
Noah darts around the corner and grabs his nana’s arm. “Come see my room!”
“Your temporary room,” I remind him. “We’re only visiting. Not staying forever.”
He ignores me and drags his nana up the stairs. Mom shoots me a smile over her shoulder as she goes.
With Noah occupied, I decide to use the time to unpack my room, but I don’t even get through the door before Shay is at the foot of the stairs, shouting at me to come down and join them for lunch.
“Be right there,” I call.
I head up the stairs to the attic. Mom is sitting in the middle of the floor with Noah, her legs crossed under her as she watches her grandson play. “Noah? Let’s go have some lunch.”
“I’m not hungry!” he says, his eyes on the Power Ranger he’s flying through the air.
I smile, knowing I hold the trump card. “I saw cinnamon rolls down there.”
Noah drops the Power Ranger and races out the door and down the stairs. Mom and I laugh and follow.
“Would you like to stay?” I ask her as we reach the bottom of the stairs.
She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“The Jacksons always say there’s room for everyone.”
She pulls me into a hug. “That’s sweet, honey, but I need to run some errands. I’ll see you soon.”
I hug her back and kiss her cheek before pulling away.
Ava joins us in the foyer. “Are you leaving already, Jill?”
My mom nods at her stepdaughter before embracing her. “I’ll stay another time,” she promises. When she pulls back, her eyes are on Ava’s growing belly. “You look great. Are you feeling okay?”
“I feel great.”
“Mom!” Noah shouts from the kitchen. “Can I have two cinnamon rolls?”
I point at my mom before she can tell him yes. “Don’t you dare,” I whisper, then call to my sugar-holic son, “Only one!”
Mom laughs. “Love you both,” she says to Ava and me before heading out the door.
Ava leads the way to the kitchen, where Jake is helping Noah fill his plate with food from the massive spread. I knew the Jacksons would do their typical family Sunday brunch after the move, but I thought they might do something simple, since they were busy all morning. Instead, they’ve prepared a feast. The kitchen peninsula is crowded with dishes: cinnamon rolls, fruit salad, hash brown casserole, ham, eggs, sausage, and enough bacon to feed an army.
I think I must be gaping, because Shay laughs. “We’re gluttons on Sundays,” she says. “You get used to it.”
“More bacon,” Noah tells Jake, who’s already put two pieces on my child’s plate.
Jake musses his hair before adding another two pieces. “That’s my kind of kid.”