Page 50 of Porcelain Lies

The sharp clatter of Mom’s spoon against china makes me wince.

She’s been stirring that same cold cup of tea for twenty minutes, her vacant eyes fixed on something I can’t see. The kitchen feels wrong without Dad’s booming laugh or the smell of his strong Turkish coffee.

I’ve been watching her drift between counter and sink like seaweed caught in a tide, her movements automatic, purposeless. Her black dress hangs loose where it used to hug her curves. The dark circles under her eyes match the ones I see in my mirror each morning.

“She’s in pain,”says Boyana, though I barely register it. Somehow, losing a father and watching your mother waste away is something that can’t be handled by an imaginary sister.

At least I’m here for Mom.

The decision to move in with her after she got out of hospital was one that I didn’t hesitate over. There was no doubt in my mind that she wouldn’t cope without me around. And my old room was just as I left it.

The funeral plays on repeat in my head — Mom standing statue-still beside the casket, not crying, barely breathing. Nick’s empty chair in the front row like an open wound. The pitying looks from the few distant relatives who’d attended, whispering about how young she is to be a widow.

My coffee has gone cold, but I can’t stop watching her. She picks up items and puts them down in the wrong places — sugar in the fridge, milk left out on the counter. I should say something, help her, but what do you say to someone who’s disappeared inside themselves?

Now, she’s back at the kitchen table, in a seat across from me.

“Stella.”

The sound of my name freezes me mid-reach for my cup. Mom’s voice is rusty from disuse, but her eyes are suddenly sharp, focused on my face with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

“Your father—” She stops, swallows hard. “There are things you need to know.”

The spoon finally stops its endless circles in the tea. Her hands are flat on the surface of the table, fingers splayed, as if she’s bracing herself. For the first time since we found Dad, I see my mother looking back at me instead of the ghost who’s been wearing her face.

“They were waiting for him to get home,” she says softly. Mom’s voice trembles but holds steady as she describes that day. My coffee sits forgotten as she speaks of the black car that had been parked in the street, engine idling. Of Dad’s face when he’d seen it — the flash of recognition, then fear.

“He pushed me back toward the house.” Her fingers curl against the table, nails grazing the surface. “Told me to run inside, lock the doors. But I couldn’t move. I watched him get in his car, watched them follow…”

The crash plays out in her words — the screech of tires, Dad’s Mercedes flipping, the sickening crunch of metal. I feel the echo of her terror as she describes running to him, seeing his body halfway through the shattered windshield, crushed beneath the bonnet. Then pain exploding in her head as one of the men struck her.

“They checked him.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Made sure he was dead before they left. I tried to tell the police, but they said I was in shock. That I’d imagined it all because of the trauma.”

I remember the hospital, the pitying looks from officers as Mom raved about murderers. The way they’d written “single vehicle accident” on the report, dismissed her as a grieving widow whose mind had created conspiracy where there was only tragedy.

There were no other witnesses, and Mom’s story had seemed so wild and disjointed that I hadn’t believed it myself.

But now her eyes are clear, her words precise. This isn’t the rambling hysteria from before. This is my mother — the sharp, practical woman who taught me calculus and made me memorize Russian poetry — telling me my father was murdered.

“Why?” The word scratches my throat. “Why would anyone want to kill Dad?”

She meets my gaze, and for a moment, I see a flash of the woman she used to be. “Your father had secrets, Stella. Things he never told you. Things he never told me.”

“Secrets?” I stare at her. “But Dad—”

“He was a complicated man, Stella.” She lowers her eyes. “A man who made mistakes, just like many others have done. But he was a good man.” Her voice falters.

“What kind of mistakes, Mom?” I frown.

“It doesn’t matter now. What matters is that they killed him.” Her voice begins to rise. “They killed him, and they can’t be allowed to get away with it, Stella!”

I reach out and put my hand over hers, afraid that I’m about to lose her again.

“We’ll go to the police tomorrow morning,” I say, squeezing Mom’s hand. “First thing. We’ll make them listen this time.”

Mom nods, the fire in her eyes already dimming. The burst of clarity seems to have drained what little energy she had left. Her shoulders slump as the weight of memory settles back over her.

“Come on.” I help her up from the kitchen chair. “You need rest.”

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