Page 93 of Wish You Were Mine
I probably should’ve said more about that—about Callie. But the rest was right there, too, heavy and waiting.
So plowing through, I added, “And then, my mom, of course, is in prison.”
“Oh—” Lucy’s lips parted slightly, like she wasn’t sure she’d heard me right.
I didn’t look at her as my cheeks burned. Just stared down at the untouched bite of pasta on my fork and waited for the silence to stretch or break.
“That’s…” she began, then stopped, her voice softer when she finally added, “I’m really sorry, Owen. That’s…a lot.”
27
OWEN
“Yeah,”I said quietly. “It is a lot.”
Lucy watched me carefully, like she was trying to thread the needle between asking and overstepping. Then, gently, “Has your mom been in prison a long time?”
I gave a slow nod. “Almost ten years.”
Her eyes searched mine, piecing things together. “So…ever since your dad and sister passed?”
“Just after that…” I dragged in a breath, steeling myself. I’d told the story before, but even though almost a decade had passed, my chest somehow still felt like it was splintering open.
I kept my eyes on the table as I spoke. “She was convicted of two counts of vehicular manslaughter. For my dad and my little sister Callie.”
Lucy’s hand stilled on her fork. Her lips parted like she wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words.
“She was high at the time,” I said, not waiting for her to fill the silence. “She’d had an addiction since I was a kid. Painkillers at first, then other stuff. When I was young, everything looked picture-perfect from the outside—nice house, goodschools, plenty of money. But behind closed doors…” I swallowed hard. “Behind closed doors my mom was checked out. Sneaking pills.”
Lucy let out a soft breath, eyes wide and sad.
“She overdosed when I was thirteen. That’s when she finally got help. Got clean. Or at least she was clean for a while.” I shook my head. “And things were good again. She was present. Sober. Trying.”
I ran a hand down my face, the old ache stirring again.
“But a few years later, when I was at Yale…she relapsed without any of us knowing. At least…not until it was too late.”
“That must’ve been so hard.” Lucy’s brows pulled together, pain flashing across her face as she whispered, “Watching your mom go through something like that. Feeling like you couldn’t help her. Like you were helpless.”
“Yeah,” I said, my throat tightening. “Exactly that.”
I stared at my plate, not really seeing it anymore.
“There were nights when my dad was on a work trip that I’d just sit by her bed,” I admitted, my voice lower now, rougher, “and watch her sleep. I just…wanted to make sure she was still breathing. I’d sit there and count her breaths and tell myself that if she made it through the night, maybe tomorrow would be better.”
Lucy didn’t speak. She just let the silence hold what I couldn’t.
“I wasn’t there when it happened,” I added quietly. “The accident. I was in New Haven, at school. Trying to stay on top of classes, praying everything was okay back home. And then one night, it wasn’t.”
The guilt—old and familiar—settled across my shoulders again. “I should’ve known she was slipping,” I murmured. “I should’ve noticed. Visited more. Checked in.”
“But you were a college kid,” she said, her voice thick withemotion. “Trying to build a future. That wasn’t your job to manage.”
I looked up, and for a second, her gaze locked with mine. There was something in it—compassion, understanding, maybe even something like admiration—that eased the rawest edge of my shame.
I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed her to say those exact words.
“What happened to your brother after the accident? He was still pretty young, right?” She tilted her head slightly. “Did he go into foster care? Since you were still in college and so young yourself?”
