Page 45 of Bitter Rival

All this time, I pictured Diane Heyward alive and healthy, thriving without Robert. Maybe she’d remarried. Maybe she lived in an even bigger, grander house than this one. That was how my mother made it sound. As if they’d gone on to something better. A fresh start. A new life. But that’s obviously not what happened.

The two people Beckett should have been able to count on weren’t there for him.

His father abandoned him, and through no fault of her own so did his mother.

Beckett lost his home. His friends. And his mother. While I got to live the life he should have been living.

I stole his life. I lived in his home. I moved into his old bedroom. And I was raised by his father until I was thirteen.

When his mother died, I was ten years old and none the wiser. No one mentioned it. Not his father. Certainly not my mother.

Is it any wonder that the hopeful, optimistic boy I remember became a man who trusts no one?

Is it any wonder he treats me with disdain? I’m just another reminder of everything he’s lost.

Robert should have done right by his son. He shouldn’t have waited until it was too late to make amends, only to turn around and play such a cruel trick. And he never should have left half of everything to me.

I no longer care what Robert Heyward wanted. As far as I’m concerned, he can go to hell.

Love him or hate him, I’m Team Beckett now.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Beckett

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that no one ever mentioned my mother’s death to Daisy.

Why would they?

Astrid didn’t care. Neither did my father. His silence made that blatantly obvious.

I’m the one who found my mother.

When I woke up that morning, I heard her crying. My grandmother was at work. It was a Saturday. We were the only two at home, and it was my job to look after my mother that day.

I told her I was there for her if she needed me and I sat outside her closed door for hours. I did my homework. I read. I guarded her door from the hallway as if that would ensure her safety.

Maybe if I’d gone into her room, I could have prevented her death.

Maybe if I’d called for help, a medical professional could have saved her.

Instead, I fell asleep and when I woke up, it was dark outside. The house was so still. So silent. And I had a knot of dread in my stomach. I think I knew what I would find when I opened that door.

Her note was brief: I love you. I’m sorry.

Weeks later, when we cleaned out my mother’s room, we found an entire drawer filled with letters she wrote to my father.

Letters she never sent that all said basically the same thing. I loved you. I would have done anything in the world for you. I thought we’d grow old together. What can I do to make you love me again?

She went on and on criticizing herself, blaming everything that went wrong on herself, and asking why he fell out of love with her.

She talked about Astrid in her letters too. The betrayal had cut even deeper because she’d considered Astrid a friend.

I burned the letters. Every last one.

But the words will forever be imprinted on my mind.

Something inside me hardened that day. Withered and died right along with my mother. I lost faith in people. Knew better than to take them at their word or trust their motives.

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