Page 97 of The Kiss of Deception

No pictures except for a polaroid of us, taken on the day we moved in.

When she focuses her attention on me, a soft smile creeps up the corners of her lips, and mine are an instant mirror.

The flowers on her dress stand out against the beige duvet, as she pats the bed once, twice, gesturing for me to sit with her.

“My baby boy,” she croons. I welcome her hug. In her arms, I’m a little boy, again. “I can’t believe you’re 28. I don’t know where the time has gone.”

“I still feel like a kid sometimes,” I admit playfully.

“Good. I don’t want you to ever lose that sweet little boy.”

It’s an effort to hold my smile with the heaviness of guilt. I’ve never hidden anything from her, much less blatantly lied to her.

“When we’re young, we think our parents are perfect. We assume their lives were always all about us and don’t consider they had a life before each other, a past that might have included other people.”

My eyebrows drag together, uncertain where this is coming from—or where it’s going.

I suppose she isn’t wrong. I never asked about her life before my father. When I was old enough to wonder about love and its intricacies, they already had divorced. I decided not to ask, afraid my questions would revive sad feelings and hurt her.

Mom sighs, tracking my features with a sliver of sadness. “You were so mad at your dad—blamed him for the divorce.”

I did. I do. I don’t want to do this—whatever this is.

“Mom, my girlfriend kindly organized everything downstairs for me. It’s rude to leave her alone with our guests.” I stand up stiffly, making my way out. “Frankly, I just don’t want to.”

I’m severely underdressed for my own birthday party, wearing my team’s blue colors in a t-shirt and shorts after practice, but I won’t waste time showering and changing while Zoe entertains our guests downstairs. In all honesty, five minutes would be nothing, but I want to be next to her now. I also wasted those minutes staring at our picture like a fool.

“There was a man before your father.” My hand freezes on the doorknob. “I fell in love and… It didn’t work out.”

I don’t dare to shatter the stretching silence as she searches for her words. I wouldn’t know how to.

She was right. In all the times I wondered about her story with my father, not once did it cross my mind that he wasn’t her first love.

“It takes two people to make a marriage work. And when it doesn’t, the responsibility doesn’t fall solely on one side.” My hand flexes, falters, and falls at last. “I loved your father. But… I guess it wasn’t the same. In the end, he decided to go his own way rather than stay with someone who couldn’t entirely let go of another love.”

I whirl around and slump, letting the door support me. “Why tell me this now?”

“I just wanted you to know the whole truth.” She folds her hands on her lap. “He left me, never you.”

Didn’t he? Though I refused to speak to him upon the separation, firmly on my mother’s side—as much as she insisted there were no sides to take—he stuck around until I left for college. Then he took a job somewhere in Texas, coaching college football.

“He still calls often to ask about you—since you won’t answer yourself.” She lifts her shoulder like it’s nothing. Like my world isn’t spinning dangerously. “One would think you’re old enough to pull your head out of your ass by yourself, but if you refuse, it’s my job as your mom to kick it.”

There’s noise in my head, so loud I don’t know where to focus. Voices over voices speak foreign languages, urging me to listen.

“I’m not defending your dad. As a matter of fact, I don’t agree with his choices. When you pushed him away, he should have pushed back harder. But the fool wanted to respect your space, give you time to come around. Look at what good that did…”

“Does that mean I’m never allowed to stay mad at you?”

Mom pats my arm indulgently. “You could never be mad at your mom, baby.”

She knows she’s gotten through to me—bulldozed her way through. On the other side of the destruction is a whole new perspective.

It was so easy to blame my father for leaving our home and breaking our family. It was easy to punish him with silence, letting the resentment grow with the distance. So easy to justify it all on my mom’s behalf when, maybe, all along, it was me—I was hurt, too.

I’ve been chasing goal after goal, victory after victory, trophy after trophy, in hopes to… What?

What have I truly been chasing? What have I been trying to accomplish?

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