Chapter 103 The Other Side
Victoria steered her cart down the aisles at Whole Foods, mentally ticking off Lily’s list.
Strawberries. The must-have. And the fish-shaped crackers.
She grabbed the strawberries, pausing to check for the brightest, juiciest ones. Six months ago, she never picked out fruit.
She barely knew which aisle the cereal was in.
Back then, assistants handled all this. Grocery shopping felt like dressing up in someone else’s life.
Now, there she was, scanning produce like it was the most important thing she’d do all day.
For Lily, it mattered. Lily always noticed.
Yogurt, string cheese, apple juice—the tiny, school-lunch size.
The essentials for a second grader.
She moved with purpose, not rushing but not lingering either.
At checkout the cashier smiled, small talk at the ready. “Big week planned?”
“Just the usual.”
“Those strawberries are amazing right now. My kids love them.”
“I’ll let you know.”
Civility, routine. The kind of interactions she used to pretend were tedious, but lately found herself craving.
Groceries in the car, she drifted home through Sunday traffic. Her phone sat quiet in the cup holder, untouched since morning.
She’d messaged Alexander earlier, then decided to give him the space he clearly needed.
This part wasn’t up to her. She could wait.
Back home, she unpacked carefully, stacking everything in its proper spot.
Tomorrow after school, Lily would come for dinner, their first official Monday routine.
Victoria made sure the strawberries had center stage in the fridge, right where Lily would spot them first.
It was all such small stuff—but those details added up. They said, “I want you here.”
Tea brewed, she curled onto the couch and glanced at her phone. Her mother’s text last night’s—l still stared at her from the screen.
I would very much like to meet her. And Leo. And talk to you and Alexander. I’m sorry. For everything. I’m so sorry. Mom.
Victoria must have read that message fifty times, dissecting the phrasing, weighing each word.
Her mom hadn’t begged. Hadn’t demanded. That was new.
I’m sorry. For everything.
Everything. Not just mistakes or disagreements, but the long silence, the lines drawn, the damage left to calcify.
Seven months of silence.
She set her phone down. Picked it up again.
She could postpone it, sit with it a little longer, let it stew. But what would that really change? Before her nerves took over, she tapped CALL.
One ring, then another. Three. Four.
Finally: “Victoria?”
Her mother’s voice was gentle and wary, like she half-expected the call to dissolve.
“Hi, Mom.”
Pause. A loaded quiet. Victoria could almost hear Catherine not breathing.
“I got your text,” Victoria said first.
“…Thank you for calling. I wasn’t sure you’d want to,” her mother said.
“Honestly, I wasn’t sure either.”
Neither rushed in with words. Silence, thick and awkward. Seven months left a lot of unspoken weight.
Catherine tried. “How are you?”
“I’m okay. Good, actually.”
“That’s… that’s good.”
Still stilted, but at least they were talking. Catherine found an anchor. “I saw the photo—your dinner. Lily is beautiful.”
Victoria couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, she is.”
“She has your eyes.”
“That’s the consensus.”
“Because she really does.”
Victoria wandered over to the window. Looked out at Manhattan. Gave up on pleasantries.
“Why now?” she asked. “Why reach out now?”
She heard her mom breathe and then, eventually—“Because I’ve spent seven months in an empty house. Eating at a table built for twelve, with your father and me sitting as far apart as possible. We don’t really talk. We just exist. Then I saw that photo—saw you building a family, saw my granddaughter—and realized how much I’d lost. Seven months of not knowing Lily. Or you. Or Alexander. I can’t get those months back.”
Victoria kept it simple. “No. You can’t.”
“I know. I know I can’t undo things. But I want to try. If you’ll let me.”
Victoria closed her eyes, weighing everything again. “What about Dad?”
A longer pause.
“It’s just me,” Catherine admitted. “He’s—he’s still too angry. Too proud. He’s convinced he did the right thing.”
Victoria’s voice sharpened. “He blackballed Alexander. Tried to end his career.”
“I know.”
“And you let him.”
“I know. I should’ve said something. Tried harder. I’m sorry. I really am.”
Victoria returned to the couch. “Alexander isn’t ready to talk. Not yet.”
“I understand.”
“I told him to take his time. You and I—whatever this is, it’s separate. He doesn’t have to be involved.”
“That’s… that’s very mature.”
“I learned a lot from him. How to set boundaries, ask for what you need.”
Catherine sounded far away. “He always was good at that. Stubborn, even as a kid.”
Victoria took a breath. “So what do you want from me?”
“To see you. Maybe meet Lily, if you’re ready for that. Talk. I don’t know. Start over, somehow.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then that’s your choice. I’ll live with it.”
Victoria weighed the silence. The hurt. The possibility.
But she thought about that silly drawing Lily made, “Aunt Victoria” written in crayon. Thought about second chances.
“I’ll meet you for coffee. Just us. We’ll see how it goes.”
Relief rushed through the line. “When?”
“I’ll text you. This week.”
“Alright, Victoria. Thank you—”
“Don’t thank me. It’s just coffee. Not forgiveness. Not yet.”
“I’ll take it.”
They both paused again, then hung up.
Victoria stayed there, the phone heavy in her hand. Seven months of nothing.
Now the tiniest step forward. Was she ready? Maybe not. But at least she was doing something.
She finished her tea and let herself sink into the routine. Laundry, meal planning, the usual Sunday night lull.
Life didn’t pause for broken things. It pulled her along—one choice at a time.
Catherine set her phone down, hands shaking.
Victoria called. For the first time in months. Coffee wasn’t much, but it was more than she’d dreamed of getting.
She stood, a little too quickly, and the room tilted. Her hand found the couch, steadying herself as the dizziness faded.
Just moving too fast. She was fine.
In the kitchen, water tasted sweet and cold. The glass felt heavier than it used to. Was she really that tired?
Her body felt off—a little worn, headaches lurking behind her eyes for weeks. Nothing severe. Just nagging. Stress. Nothing more.
She’d been meaning to call the doctor, schedule a checkup. There was always something else, though. Committees. Events. Excuses.
Next week, she told herself. After coffee with Victoria.
Just as the room settled, a deeper wave of dizziness made her clutch the counter. She pushed through. Richard’s voice drifted from the hall.
“Catherine, are you alright?”
She straightened, swaying a little. “I’m fine.”
“You look pale.”
“It’s just a long day. And stress.” She tried to brush him off.
“Maybe you should see the doctor,” he pressed.
“For being tired? I’m fine.” Not letting his worry land.
She changed the subject. “Victoria called. We’re meeting for coffee.”
His jaw set. “I see.”
“You could come.”
He shook his head. “No. She made her choice.”
“We forced her to choose, Richard. Now she’s willing to see me—you could—”
He turned and left the room.
Catherine stood by herself, headache low and steady. Food sounded awful, but she stared into the fridge anyway. Maybe later.
She climbed the stairs, lay on her bed fully dressed, just for a moment.
She woke up sore and disoriented hours later—outside already dark.
That was new. She’d never been one to nap, especially not in the afternoon.
Fatigue weighed her down. Headache mounting, she popped three aspirin, chasing them with more water.
The woman in the bathroom mirror looked thinner, almost hollow. When had that happened? Meal after silent meal with Richard—most of them untouched.
Stress, she decided. Nothing more.
Downstairs, Richard holed up behind his closed door. She made toast and forced herself to chew, each bite tasteless. At least it would soak up the aspirin.
A text from Diane: Still on for Wednesday dinner?
Catherine stared at it, already tired at the prospect. She replied, Can we reschedule? Something’s come up.
You okay? Diane wrote back.
Just busy. Rain check?
The last thing she wanted was to sit through an evening pretending everything was fine.
She finished her tea and headed for bed, early, Richard still locked away in his study.
She took another aspirin, switched off the light, curled up tight.
The headache drummed on, steady and sharp.
Tomorrow she’d call the doctor. Tomorrow, after coffee with Victoria.
Everything else could wait until after. She owed her daughter that. She owed all of them a chance to put things right.
Health was important, yes. But family, that still came first. At least until she’d tried.
She told herself, “Tomorrow will be better.”
She believed it, because she had to.
She closed her eyes. Waited. And hoped.