Page 6 of Ashes of Saints

“Do you think I’m dumb?” I scoffed, having already searched online and discovered the apartment cost multiple seven figures.

“I think you’re a rude young woman. Focus on your studies and work out what you want to do with your life. You have no substance. No idea who you are.”

She knew that would hurt me.

Being homeschooled had isolated me. When I got to college, I was confronted with all my peers who had clear career paths and knew what they wanted. Not all. But most.

My mother always used that tactic when trying to steer me off the path when I questioned her.

“Mom, are you a criminal?” I’d finally asked about two years ago.

Her brows had risen to her hairline in surprise and a flicker of fear flashed across her eyes. Then rapidly disappeared.

But instead of getting angry, she laughed. Hard. Fake. And aggressively.

“Don’t be absurd, Aurora.” Mom turned her back on me and kept cackling. “Yes, sure. I’m in the mob. You and your imagination. Jesus Christ. Go home if you’re going to be childish. I don’t want to see you.”

I’d felt stupid, but still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.

Was someone else paying for the penthouse?

It wasn’t just that. Her clothing budget and lifestyle had suddenly changed and she was living an extravagant life. The moment I moved out, everything changed.

Why?

So last weekend I hadn’t been able to stay silent any longer. She’d returned from a month in Morocco with friends and was tanned and talking about some foreign man she’d had a love affair with.

Yuck.

“Mom. How are you paying for this apartment?” I pressed.

“With money I earned.” She snapped and spun around to face me. Then pointed at my face. “You’re an ungrateful young woman. After all I did for you, now you accuse me of being a criminal. Get out of my face.”

Flinching, I grabbed my handbag and strode across the marble floor to the elevator. But I’d turned before it had opened and stared at her.

“You’ve been hiding things from me since I was born. One day I will find out,” I said softly.

“No.” Mom leaned her hip against the cream sofa and crossed her arms, almost proud and amused. “No, Aurora. You will not.”

That’s when I knew.

I was right.

Aside from keeping the identity of my father hidden from me, there were other lies and information she was keeping from me. After years of gaslighting me, with that one horrid smirk, she said a million things.

I had actually become hopeful that I was making progress. That eventually, and soon, she would tell me.

Now, all that hope is gone.

I’m left with a blank line on my birth certificate where my father should be and strange memories from my childhood that don’t make sense.

Faces I can’t put names to.

Things no one will explain to me.

Mary-Anne has taken the answers I seek with her to her grave.

Bitch.

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