Page 11 of Anything For This Love

“I have nothing to say to you,” I snarl.

“I’m trying to make amends!” she cries, taking another step in my direction. “I apologized to Abby. She knows how truly sorry I am. I told her everything. I want to be a part of Chloe’s life. I want my son back!” Her eyes, the same icy shade as mine, are wide and glassy, unshed tears pooling in the corners.

“I know you went to Abby’s and apologized to her, and Irespect that, but it doesn’t change what you did. Do you have any idea how betrayed I feel? I don’t know if I can ever trust you again.”

“I know it will take time. We can take baby steps. I’ve already lost one child.” Her voice catches and the tears finally break loose, spilling down her cheeks. “I can’t lose another.”

My father wraps an arm around her shoulder and she turns into him, burying her face in his thick chest. “I’m so sorry.” Shuddering sobs wrack her body, her slim shoulders shaking with each breath.

I don’t know what to say. Does she truly regret her actions, or is she only sorry now that she has to face the repercussions? I’m still so damn angry, but something else overshadows that raging inferno of emotion. Hurt. No one I love has ever hurt me like she did that day.

She finally pulls away and wipes her eyes before smoothing a hand over her rumpled shirt. I haven't seen her this disheveled since we lost Peyton. Her cheeks are hollow and dark circles rim her eyes. Her hair is fixed but looks dull and lifeless. She's dressed in her usual designer clothes, but they hang loose on her small frame.

“Let’s just try to have a nice family dinner and go from there,” my father offers, ushering us toward the door.

My mother’s damp eyes focus on me for a moment and she shakes her head. “I think it’s best if I go. You two should catch up. My presence here will only cause tension.” She ducks her head and begins to walk out, but I hold up my hand to stop her.

“Stay. You need to eat something.” Her sad eyes fill with hope. “Besides, there’s something I need to discuss with both of you.” Her features tense and she starts to speak, but I stop her. “We can talk about it after dinner.” She looks so frail, I’m afraid she’ll blow away with a strong gust of wind. My first priority is making sure she eats something. Despite my ire, I don’t wish ill for my mother, and right now, that’s how she looks.

“Okay,” she relents.

We take our seats at the dining room table and Marta walks in shortly after, depositing the bread bowl between the three of us. She shoots a wink my way and places a porcelain butter dish next to my plate. Since Dad is continually keeping an eye on his cholesterol and my mother logs every gram of fat that goes into her mouth, I’m the only one who will use it.

I spread a pad of butter onto a roll while Marta brings the food out and serves each of us, beginning with my father. Cutting into my pork chop, I place the first bite into my mouth and nearly groan. My family truly lucked out when we found Marta. She cooks everything from scratch and once trained under a world-renowned chef in Paris after fleeing the Soviet Union as a teenager.

“What did you want to talk to us about, son?” my father asks as I spear another piece of meat onto my fork.

I swipe my napkin across my mouth and take a sip of water before replying. “Abby was here this weekend.” A loud clanging erupts from across the table as my mother drops her fork. Surprise washes over her face and she scrambles to pick her utensil back up before peering at me. “We went to Dante’s for dinner last night and a paparazzi snapped a photo of us. It freaked her out.” Understandable, considering she didn’t grow up the way I did. My parents exchange a look like they know a secret I’m not in on.

“This is what I was afraid of.” Dad wipes his mouth and tosses his napkin onto his plate, his appetite lost. “We’ve been tossing around the idea of pursuing the presidency for three years now, and the media has caught wind of it. Once they get a hold of something like this, they’re like a dog with a bone.”

“Why don’t you just announce one way or the other and put it to rest?”

“I haven’t reached a decision yet,” he replies, lowering his voice.

“We’ve worked so hard for this,” my mother pleads. “It’s what we’ve wanted for years.”

“No,” he snaps, “this is whatyou’vewanted for years. I’m still undecided. I’m not even sure I want to be President.” My mother gasps, leaning back in her chair with her hand clutched to her chest.

“What do you mean? It’s always been the goal.”

“Yes,yourgoal. It’s all you’ve talked about since my first term in the Senate.” I suddenly feel like I’m witnessing a private conversation between my parents, something to which I shouldn’t be privy. They never discuss these matters in front of me and never seem to disagree on anything. They usually present a united front.

“Are you saying you never wanted to be President?”

“I’m saying I’ve never wanted it as badly as you do. It’s a big commitment, and it comes with unfathomable change. Change I don’t think our family is ready for at the moment. It’s obviously already affecting our son,” he explains, motioning toward me. “I’m not sure I’m willing to put my family through the media storm that’s about to ensue. If I decide to run and get the nomination, they’ll dig into our lives like they never have before. We have a grandchild to think about now. You know how Presidents’ families get treated; the way people talk about them and to them. You and I can handle it. We’re used to it, but they aren’t. Abby isn’t, and neither is Chloe. I won’t make this decision lightly or prematurely, no matter how much pressure I’m under to do so.” He gives my mother a pointed look and she lets out a resigned sigh.

“Okay,” she relents, realizing there’s no room for argument.

With nothing left to say, the three of us part ways. I’m surprised when my mother leaves, heading back into the city for the night.

“It won’t be like this forever,” my father announces, clapping a hand over my shoulder as I prepare to leave. “Your mother and I have a lot to work through, but she’ll be back. She knows what she did was wrong and she’s facing the repercussions. I think it’s time you consider forgiving her so you both can begin to heal.”

I nod. “I think you’re right. I’m still just so mad. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to trust her again.”

“I know, son. I know.” He pulls me in for a hug, patting my back reassuringly.

The next twoweeks pass by in a blur. Abby and I manage to talk every day, frequently video chatting so I can see Chloe. My schedule becomes increasingly hectic as the holidays near since my company is gearing up to be closed over Thanksgiving. Most days, work keeps me busy until dinner time and I rush home to talk to my girls. Our newest engineer just started and has been in company-wide orientation the last couple days. Now I’ve been tasked with showing him the ropes until he’s settled in.

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