Page 51 of Sinful Promises

It was an eternity before her crying reduced to sniffles and the lump in my throat shifted enough to allow me to talk.

She swallowed so loudly I heard it. I reached for the water on the trolley at the end of her bed and held the straw to her mouth. As Mother drank, I studied the face of the woman who’d once been the envy of everyone. Mother had lit up any room with her beauty and energy. They were both long gone. The frail woman before me had a gray complexion and was all skin and bone.

I put the cup aside. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m dying.” She said it so matter-of-fact.

Releasing her hand, I shoved my suitcase out of the way and peeled off my backpack. When I stepped to the bed again, she clutched my hand like it was her lifeline.

“You’re not dying, Mother.”

She rolled her eyes and barked a cough that was so rough, I imagined it would truly hurt. Many times in my life, I’d seen Mother fake an illness—cancer being at the top of her acting repertoire. She wasn’t faking it now—the doctor’s diagnosis was evidence of that. This was fate. She’d brought this upon herself.

Karma was a bitch.

When she finished coughing, she sipped her drink again and clutched my hand with her bony fingers. “I am dying. It’s too late for me.”

“Mom—”

“Stop. I don’t want to talk about it.” She squeezed my hand so tight; it was a wonder her fingers didn’t snap.

Reaching for the chair at the bedside, I tugged it forward and sat without releasing my grip from hers.

“I want to hear all about you, Daisy. Please.”

She closed her eyes, and it took so long for them to open again, I wondered if she’d fallen asleep. When she looked at me, her eyes glimmered with some of that spark that had infuriated me so many times in my childhood.

“Please. This is my dying wish. I want to get to know my daughter.” She scraped a hand through her hair. It was much thinner now, and no longer had that silky-smooth look that would glimmer in the sunshine. “How are you?”

I glared at her, unable to hold back the doubt and suspicion that crept into my thoughts. The woman before me looked nothing like the woman I’d last seen over a decade ago, but I’d learned the hard way that Mother always had an ulterior motive. There was every chance she was still as conniving as ever.

Her wanting to know me, as in, truly know me, was the last thing I’d expected. She’d spent her entire life trying to ignore my existence. And I’d come to accept that. Not this.

It took a long time to form my response. “I’m fine, Mom.”

“I don’t want to hear fine. I want to hear every tiny little detail.” She smiled and adjusted her body so she could look at me more easily, and when I looked into her eyes, I saw something I couldn’t recall seeing before—sincerity.

This change . . . it had my resolve crumbling.

Her dying wish was me. Me.

A wave of pride swelled up inside my chest. Yet at the same time I reminded myself that Mother was born with an unyielding focus on self-importance. She only wanted to know other people to help her establish how she could get what she wanted. Mother was the smiling predator. I was certain her new curiosity in me came with an endgame.

But I had a hand of my own to play. I would give her information. In return, I wanted answers.

Let’s play.

She squeezed my palm to hers, prodding for a response. “Tell me about where you live. What’s your home like? I want to learn all about your job. Are you with someone? Daisy, I’m sorry I didn’t do this sooner, but I’d like to know my own daughter better.”

I was horrified that many of her questions would draw a blank. No home, no job, no partner. Finally, I said, “Well, I gave everything up to come here. So there’s nothing to tell.”

“Hey, don’t do that to me. I don’t want the glossed-over details. Or how will I get to know you? I spent my whole life pretending to be the happy one, so you can’t fool me.”

“You were happy, Mother.”

“No, I wasn’t.” She groaned and rolled her eyes with great exaggeration. “The only person I was fooling was me.”

As she smacked her lips together, I studied her, trying to establish what angle she was playing. At first, it seemed like the sympathy angle was coming my way. She had plenty of practice at that. But there was also a glimmer of defiance. I figured if I did my trick where I remained silent, she’d keep talking. So that was exactly what I did.

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