Page 98 of The Rules of Playing with Fire

I took two steps back before turning around and walking away. I heard my mother’s violent sobs as I closed the front door behind me. It sounded like someone had cut open her chest and wrenched out a piece of her heart.

I knew the feeling well.

MIHIR

After I’d stormed out of my parents’ home with a stinging cheek, a bruised ego, and a broken heart, I cut off all contact with them. Initially they’d called, over and over, but slowly, as the days drifted by without a response, their calls subsided.

I drove past their home, my home, every evening, but I couldn’t bring myself to step inside. I spent hours sitting in my parked car on the street outside, often catching a glimpse of them entering or leaving the home, sometimes a reflection through the windows. Tempted as I was to rush into their open arms and cry myself dry, my anger and resentment always won over the love I felt for them. I pictured them sitting in our home, aging rapidly, without their son to support them when they most needed him.

For over two months, I hadn’t answered any calls outside of work. Tara and Sameer kept calling, and I kept sending them to voicemail. I only answered Sameer’s emails about work, only communicating with Grant and Mike over texts.

In a completely unexpected plot twist, I received a text from Sona offering a shoulder for me to lean on. Replete with her trademark sass, it reminded me of why I had fallen for her so easily. It also highlighted the gaping hole her absence had left in my life.

I’d been quick to block her number so it wouldn’t hurt to decline her call. Seeing her name flashing on my phone inevitably conjured up her sweet face, which I had ruined with tears. I had been cruel and stupid to put that woman through agony, yet here she was, kind and generous as ever. She was a true giver, and I didn’t deserve her. However unfounded this conviction was, it was seared into my brain like penitence.

Then, late one evening two weeks ago, I got a call from Grant, which I promptly declined.

Answer the fucking phone. His angry text buzzed in my hand, and I tossed the phone to the couch. I’d just changed for my nightly run when another loud text dinged.

At least answer the fucking door. Grant was relentless. I sighed and let him in.

“What the fuck is the matter with you?” he grumbled as he barged in with a bottle in his hand.

“Nothing that your five-hundred-dollar bottle of scotch can solve.”

“This one,” he said, waving the bottle at me, “is from my personal stash. You can bet your ass it costs more than a lousy five hundred. And don’t lock the door. Mike’s on his way.”

“What the hell? Did Mom call you?” I grumbled.

“No, your dad did. That’s what got us worried.”

“Did he call Mikey too?”

Grant nodded. “What’s going on, Mir? Dr. S sounded serious, but he didn’t say what happened. Just asked us to check up on you.”

“He has no moral authority to say anything,” I fumed as the doorbell sounded.

But it wasn’t Mike. “Len? What the hell are you doing here?”

“Ah, just what a girl wants to hear,” she said and pushed past me into the house. “Where’s Mike?”

“He’s on the way,” Grant said.

“He told me he had surgeries all week,” I cried with righteous indignation. “Did you mess up his schedule so he could come talk to me?”

“He’s rescheduled tomorrow’s for later in the day,” Len said. “You know we’ll be here when you need us, Mir.”

Years ago, when Grant had lost his younger brother, Mike and I had held him as he wept in our arms. Then, when Mike had a falling out with his father, Grant and I had held him in ours. Now, it was my turn. When Mikey arrived that evening, I wept without shame. Len was taken aback to see three well-built, grown men in such a tender moment, but she wrapped us all in her arms and shed some tears with us. Years ago, in grade school, she had adopted Grant and me as her brothers. Adopted. The word caught in my throat and threatened to choke my breath.

“Alright, enough,” Grant declared with a pat on my back. “Get the glasses, Mike. Mir, start talking.”

It didn’t take long for them to realize the gravity of my hurt, but they’d known my parents since we were little kids. So where I’d expected sympathy, coddling, and handholding, I got rebuke and reprimand.

Grant frowned. “Did you really stop talking to them for that?”

“They are your family, Mir. We are your family,” Mike said sagely. “Shouldn’t they get some benefit of the doubt for protecting you?”

“You might think I am the little sister,” Len said, nursing her drink. “But I think it is cruel to cut them out like this,”

---