Page 29 of Twisted Love

“Hi, Dad,” I say gently, bending down to wrap my arms around him. He pulls me into a bear hug, but his embrace is weaker than I remember.

“Ah! you’re home,” he says, his voice raspy with sleep. “How are you doing, kiddo? Everything okay?”

I nod, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “I’m fine, Dad.” The words feel heavy, but I force them out with a smile. “You get some rest. Mom and I will catch up in the kitchen and we’ll have lunch together, okay?”

He nods, though his eyes linger on me with the kind of worry only a parent can carry. I give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before heading back to my mother, who’s already bustling around the stove.

As soon as I rejoin her, she’s ready, questions spilling out like steam from a pot.

“So,” she begins, her voice light but probing, as she glances at me out of the corner of her eye. “How’s the marriage? What about you and Earl? Is he treating you well? Do you … see him much?”

The rhythm of her chopping slows slightly, a subtle cue that she’s paying close attention to. With a soft laugh, I pull out a chair and collapse into it. I lean my elbows on the kitchen table. “You can stop worrying, Mom, I’m fine. Really. The house is beautiful—absolutely gorgeous. It’s lovely having staff. And Earl and I are slowly working our issues out.” I force my tone to sound lighter. “And once Dad is well, you’ll both have to come up to the house. Maybe in summer. It’s beautiful. A dream, really. There’s a lake too and I know Dad will love it.”

Mom sets down the spoon and leans against the counter, tilting her head with a knowing look. “And what about Mrs. Belafonte’s staff? How are they treating you? Are they polite to you?”

I chuckle softly and tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Oh, Mom, they’re wonderful. Honestly, I couldn’t have asked for better people. They’re so kind and helpful. They … they actually make me feel at home.”

Her eyebrows lift with surprise. “That’s good to hear. I’ve heard stories about Mrs. Belafonte and how she used to treat her staff, so I thought they might be a bit difficult or standoffish with you.”

I shake my head, smiling. “Not at all. They’ve been nothing but welcoming. I guess they much prefer me to their old mistress. Apparently, she was a real tyrant.”

“Yes, I heard that too,” my mom confirms. “Apparently, she used to make their lives miserable.”

“Well, I certainly don’t. Obviously, they do their jobs, but I treat them with respect. I didn’t grow up rich, so I think they see me as no different than them.”

“Good. That is how your father and I brought you up to be. To be kind. Never change, Raven,” she says, her voice thick with pride.

I nod, the words sinking into me with a quiet comfort. “I try to be kind, but they’ve made it so easy. Nora and I talk, we laugh… It’s nice. I don’t feel lonely at all.”

Mom’s eyes crinkle with joy and her shoulders relax. She turns back to stir the pot of soup on the stove. “Good. You deserve to be surrounded by people who care about you.”

“I am,” I reply.

“And what about your husband?” she asks. “I really wonder if I’m ever going to get used to that. Have you gotten used to saying it?”

“Not at all,” I smile. “And he’s alright. We’re working things out slowly. No issues there.”

I can tell something in my voice or expression must have given the game away and she doesn’t really believe me, but thankfully she doesn’t press and instead shifts the focus of the conversation.

“Your clothes look new. Did he buy them for you?” she probes.

I glance down at the simple outfit I’d thrown on that morning—a blouse I bought a long time ago and never wore, and jeans. “No,” I say, brushing off invisible lint from my sleeve. “These are just some old things I dug out of my closet.”

Her eyes linger on me for a moment longer, as though trying to read between the lines of what I’m not saying. Then she picks up the knife again and continues.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “It was too strange and sad when you moved out so suddenly.”

Tears fill my eyes at her words. I rush up to her and hug her hard. I need the warmth and love more than she will ever know.

“It’s good to be back,” I whisper tearfully.

Soon lunch is ready. Mom wipes her hands on her apron and calls out to Dad. I follow her into the small dining room, where he’s already sitting at the table that has been set for three.

I help Mom bring all the food to the table, making sure everything looks perfect. The aroma of warm soup and freshly baked meatloaf fills the room. The weight on my chest feels lighter. We start eating and the conversation flows easily at first, focusing on little things—the neighbor’s dog, a new series Mom has started watching, and the state of Dad’s vegetable patch.

But as the meal progresses, the inevitable topic surfaces: Dad’s health.

“How are you feeling, Dad?” I ask gently, my gaze settling on him. “Any changes since last week?”

---