Chapter 161

Chapter 161
Linnet's POV


When we finally pulled apart, the kitchen clock read just past nine, and I could see the exhaustion pulling at Mom's features despite her attempts to hide it behind smiles and reassurances.

We moved together in comfortable silence to clear the dinner dishes, falling into the familiar rhythm of our shared household tasks—me scraping plates while Mom ran the hot water, the two of us working side by side at the sink.

There was something grounding about this domesticity, this return to normal routine after the intensity of our conversation, and I found myself grateful for these small rituals that anchored us to each other and to the life we'd built together in this apartment.

The warm water ran over my hands as I rinsed soap suds from plates, and I watched the bubbles swirl down the drain and thought about how strange it was that life just continued even after revelations that should have shaken the foundations of everything you thought you knew—

That you could learn your mother had been raped by your boyfriend's father and then just wash dishes like it was any other night, like the world hadn't tilted on its axis and rearranged itself into something darker and more complicated than you'd ever imagined.

After we'd finished the dishes and completed our evening routines—teeth brushed, faces washed, the day's weight finally beginning to settle—I found myself hesitating outside Mom's bedroom door, suddenly reluctant to retreat to my own room with the weight of everything I'd learned tonight pressing down on me like a physical presence.

I knocked softly, and when Mom called for me to come in, I pushed the door open to find her already changed for bed, her hair loose around her shoulders in a way that made her look younger and more vulnerable than she'd seemed in the kitchen.

"Can I sleep with you tonight, mom?" The question came out quieter than I'd intended, but not hesitant—after everything we'd shared tonight, this felt less like asking permission and more like acknowledging what we both needed. "I haven't slept with you for a long time, and after everything tonight, I don't really want to be alone."

Mom's face softened immediately, and she pulled back the covers in invitation without a moment's hesitation. "Of course you can, sweetheart. Come here."

I smiled and crossed the room quickly and slid under the blankets beside her, immediately enveloped by the familiar scent of her lavender lotion and the warmth of her presence. The mattress was softer than mine, and I found myself sighing contentedly as I settled against her side, feeling the tension drain from my shoulders suddenly.

"Your bed is so much more comfortable than mine," I murmured, already feeling the exhaustion of the evening pulling at me like an undertow. "And it smells like home."

Mom laughed softly, the sound warm and genuine in the dimness, and wrapped one arm around my shoulders to pull me closer, tucking me against her side the way she used to when I was small and afraid of thunderstorms.

"You used to sleep like this every night when you were little," she said, her voice taking on that nostalgic quality it always did when she talked about my early childhood, when she reached back through the years to a time when things had been simpler.

"Curled up right against my side, one hand fisted in my shirt like you were afraid I'd disappear if you let go. When David and I decided you were old enough for your own room, you cried for weeks. We'd put you to bed with all your stuffed animals and your nightlight, and within an hour you'd be padding down the hall to climb into bed with us."

"Really?" I tried to picture it—myself as a small, clingy child rather than the independent, self-sufficient teenager I'd become out of necessity—and found the image both foreign and oddly comforting. "I don't remember being that attached. I always thought I was pretty good at being alone."

"You learned to be," Mom said, and there was a note of sadness in her voice that made my chest tighten with a complicated mixture of guilt and grief. "After your father died, you had to grow up fast. I was working so much, trying to keep us afloat, and you were so determined not to be a burden. I'd come home and find you'd already done your homework, already made yourself dinner from whatever we had in the pantry, already gotten yourself ready for bed."

"You were seven years old and you were more self-sufficient than most teenagers. But when you were really little, before we lost David—you were the most affectionate child imaginable. Always wanted to be held, always wanted stories and cuddles and attention. You'd follow me around the apartment narrating everything you were doing, asking questions about everything you saw, wanting to be involved in every single task no matter how mundane."

The ache in my chest intensified at the mention of my father, at the reminder of everything we'd lost when he died and left us to navigate this harsh world alone—not just his income and his presence but the buffer he'd provided between us and poverty, between us and the kind of grinding exhaustion that came from working multiple jobs just to keep a roof over our heads.

"Tell me more about him, Mom," I said softly, needing suddenly to hear about the man whose absence had shaped so much of my life, whose love for Mom had been the counterweight to Cole's cruelty, whose memory was the only thing that kept her believing love could be good and gentle and safe.

"Tell me about you and Dad. The good parts, the happy memories. I want to know what it was like when you were together."