Page 82 of Lovingly Restored

Not like this. Please don’t let that be the last thing he says.

And then the door slams. The bang sends me running down the stairs and onto the rough path. Blood rushes in my ears, my fingers tingle, the front yard is too dark for me to notice the uneven paving stone. I fall hard, my kneecaps and heels of my hands breaking my fall. I cry out, barely allowing myself a moment before scrambling to my feet and running the last metres to my car.

You better fucking start.

When it does, I take off down the road.

Away from my garden.

Away from Mummo.

Away from the man I’ve fallen in love with.

Knees stinging, heart aching.

Chapter twenty-seven

Isaac

Islamthedoorwith such force that the walls rattle and something in the dining room plummets to the floor. Avoiding the glass surrounding the frame, I pick up the fallen photo. The image is a crushing blow. I’ve been so busy, I didn’t notice this. Ashlyn had the picture of Mummo and I on the porch swing developed. She chose the frame with care, it blends beautifully with the other family photos.

“Shit.” I run my hands through my hair.

I place the damaged memory on an end table. Did I ever screw that up. The reality of what happened settles over me.

“Isaac.”

I jump at the sound of Mummo’s voice.

“I’m sorry I woke you.” I turn to escort her back to bed, but she doesn’t seem sleepy in the slightest.

“Are you sorry about the way you spoke to her?”

Fuck.Did she hear everything?

“Hmm?” she prompts, “Are you sorry?”

“I don’t know.”

It’s the truth. Even though my words were harsh, awful lies, they slipped out easily. Hearing her say that this was a mistake? No fucking way.

“Isaac,” I note she’s not using my nickname, “I don’t know how I raised your father to be such a vulture. Circling around this house, trying to get his claws in it, closer and closer. Do I look dead to you?”

I hate to hear her talk like this.

“Mummo. Don’t say that, please.”

“Death is a part of life.”

I shrug.

She continues, stronger and clearer than I’ve heard her in a while, “When your father acts like a fool, I’m used to it. But you…when you disappoint me like this, it hurts.”

The adage that a parent’s disappointment stings more than their anger is painfully true. I shrink under her gaze. Ageing backwards at a rapid pace.

“She’s gone, I take it?”

I nod. Not able to voice that fact quite yet.

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