Page 110 of Crossing Lines

Before I think it through, my feet are moving—racingdown the stairs, throwing open the front door, skidding to a stop in front of her.

“Are you serious?” I whisper, scanning her face for any sign of a lie.

Her eyes brim with something close to tears. “Yes,” she says. “I’m so sorry. For everything.”

Something in me unknots and in its place, hope blooms, reckless and full.

“Do you want to come inside and talk?” I ask.

“Nina…” Nate’s voice is low, warning. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“She’s my mom,” I say, too fast. Already turning. “You can sit with us if it makes you more comfortable.”

“I’d love to,” Mom says, coming to my side and wrapping an arm around me.

She leans into my side, her warmth seeping through the thin fabric of my shirt, and for a fleeting moment, it’s as if we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be. As if the fractures between us never existed. The weight of her against me feels like forgiveness, like a silent promise neither of us has dared to speak aloud. And I like it. More than I should. More than I’ll ever admit out loud.

The living room feels surreal as we settle in—same couches, same room—but everything feels hopeful now. Nate stands by the wall, arms crossed, silent and watching.

She turns toward me, tucking one leg beneath her, the other on the floor. I do the same, like we’re mirroring each other without thinking.

“I’m so sorry,” she says again, voice soft. “I know I’ve hurt you.”

“I…”The word hangs between us, fragile and unfinished. My throat tightens around all the things I can't bring myself to say—I want to trust you. I need this to be true.The ache of it is sharp, relentless, a blade pressed against my ribs. Iwantto believe her, but there’s already been too much emotional bloodshed between us.

“I haven’t been the best mom to you, but I want to make it right.”

“How?” I ask.

“By getting clean. By making amends. By really showing up for you.” Her voice wobbles, and it feels so real.

I blink hard, and the world tilts. Somewhere in the wreckage of me, a warning flares:Don’t. You know how this ends.

But the fire gutters out, drowned in the quiet, in thewanting, in the desire to help her.

“I’d like that,” I whisper.

“Me too.” She pats my leg gently, like we’re close. “But first, let me use the bathroom, and then we can look up treatment centers together, okay?”

“Okay,” I say, voice small. Hopeful. Still afraid.

She disappears down the hallway, heading to the bathroom. Her steps are slow, but steady. Confident, almost.

Nate and I wait in silence, the quiet stretching between us like held breath. His brow furrows, almostskeptical, but I don’t let it shake me. Instead, I give a small, convinced nod—more to myself than to him—because for the first time in so long, Ineedthis to be real.

This is happening. She’s finally ready. She’s really going to get clean. She apologized and wants to now get help.

The words echo through me like sunlight breaking through a storm cloud.

A soft kind of joy floats up in my chest, giddy and disbelieving. I can’t stop the smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

Maybe this is what it feels like to win a battle you never thought you could.

Maybe holding the boundary worked.

Maybe this time, she saw I was serious and chose to change.

“Don’t you think she’s taking a while to pee?” Nate says, cutting through the moment.

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