Page 109 of Crossing Lines

“Breathe,” Evren says softly, rubbing my back. “Don’t spiral.”

I let out a short, sharp laugh. Spiraling would require energy, and I don’t have any left after the past couple days.

“I blocked her,” I whisper. “We filed the temporary restraining order. I?—”

“I know.” Evren’s jaw flexes. He reaches for me, pulling me into his chest. “This isn’t on you.”

“I told you she won’t stop, she never does. Maybe we should just give her some money? Stop it all before it gets worse?” Stop it all before he changes his mind and doesn’t want to be with me anymore.

“Let me handle this.” Evren cups the back of my head, strong and solid and here. “We’ll put out a statement. Send a cease and desist. You don’t have to do anything.”

“She’ll just find another way,” I whisper.

“Maybe, but we’ll work through ittogether.”

When Evren leaves for work, I try throwing myself into decorating Stella’s house, but I can’t get into it. I end up staring at the walls more than painting them. All I can focus on is Mom and her next move. How far is she willing to go? What’s her endgame?Endless questions coil tighter with every passing hour, like a snake eating its own tail.

Around lunchtime, screaming sounds from outside followed by my phone ringing. It’s Nate.

“Hi,” I answer.

“Your mom’s outside,” Nate says, voice calm, but firm. “She’s demanding to see you.”

“I…” My breath catches. My throat tightens.

“Stay inside. We’ll handle it. She’s not getting past us.”

For a second, I just stand there, stunned. Then relief fills me

It’s unexpected having someone else take the lead. Having people like Evren and Nate on my side running interference. Keeping her out. Keeping me safe.

Maybe this is what I was missing all along. Not strength. Not toughness. Just backup.

More yelling filters in from the front door. A car door slams. Tires squeal.

And I breathe out—long and shaky.

Huh, maybe I can do this? Maybe I can hold the boundary. Maybe I won’t cave this time. Maybe I won’t be alone.

Hours later there’smore shouting. Another security alert. Nate calls.

“She’s back,” he says. “Again.”

I shouldn't look. But I do.

Peeking through the curtain, I catch sight of her on the driveway—barely recognizable. Her hair is a mess, her clothes look slept in. Her makeup is smeared. She looks like she’s falling apart.

And just like that, I feel it—the old tug in my chest of guilt, thick and immediate.

The security guards hold the line. Nate is talking to her calmly, but she’s shaking her head.

Then her voice rises above it all. “Niiina. I just want to talk and to apologize. I have a problem. I-I want help.”

I freeze.

She’s never said those words before. Not once. Not when I begged. Not when I cried. Every time I hinted that she might need help, she turned it on me—made me feel like the ungrateful one or that I was the one with the problem.

But now? Now she’s saying everything I’ve spent years praying to hear. Maybe this time is different. Maybe this is the fragile, beautiful beginning of the mother I’ve never stopped hoping for. For the first time in so long, I let myself believe—this could be it. The moment she changes. The moment she chooses me.

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