Page 57 of Broken Secrets
We finish getting ready and climb into our narrow bunks. The cabin settles into quiet conversations and rustling sleeping bags as everyone winds down from the day. Outside, I can hearthe gentle sound of waves on the shore and the distant call of seabirds settling in for the night.
As I drift off to sleep, my last thought is of Derek’s arms around me in the water, the way the evening light caught in his eyes, and the promise that whatever we’ve found together doesn’t have to end just because the trip does.
The bus ride back to school passes in a blur of sleeping students, scattered conversations about the trip, and the gradual return to cell phone connectivity as we approach the mainland. My phone buzzes with notifications I’ve missed over the past three days, but I ignore them, not quite ready to rejoin the digital world yet.
At school, we collect our duffel bags and disposable cameras and Derek gives me a long hug goodbye in the parking lot, his lips brushing against my ear as he whispers, “This was the best three days ever.”
“Text me when you get home,” I say, even though we’ll probably see each other tomorrow at school.
“Already planning to.”
The drive home feels surreal after three days of island time. Traffic lights and strip malls and the general chaos of suburban Los Angeles seem overwhelming after the peaceful simplicity of the research station. But as I turn into our driveway and see our familiar white bungalow with its blue shutters and jasmine-covered porch, I feel a rush of affection for home.
I grab my duffel bag and head for the front door, already planning to tell my mom and Robert about it all.
But when I unlock the door and step inside, Mom is sitting at the kitchen table, and she’s crying. Not the gentle, frustratedtears I’ve seen her shed over work stress or sad movies, but the kind of raw, heartbroken sobbing that makes your chest hurt just witnessing it. Her hair is disheveled, her makeup smeared, and there are tissues scattered across the table like evidence of a long emotional siege.
Robert’s car wasn’t in the driveway when I pulled in, which means he’s still at work.
“Mom?” I drop my duffel bag by the door and hurry to her side. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
She looks up at me with red-rimmed eyes, and for a moment she just stares like she’s not quite sure I’m real.
“You’re home,” she says, her voice thick with tears.
“I’m home. What’s going on? Are you okay?”
She takes a shaky breath, wiping her eyes with a tissue that’s clearly been used many times already. “I’ve been thinking. About you, about Jeremy, about everything I said last week. About the choices I made eighteen years ago.”
My stomach clenches.
“I’ve been selfish,” she continues, her voice barely above a whisper. “So incredibly selfish. I kept you from your father not to protect you, but to protect myself. From having to share you, from having to face what I did by leaving Michigan the way I did.”
“Mom,”
“No, let me say this. I need to say this.” She reaches for my hands, holding them tightly in her own. “You have every right to know Jeremy. To have a relationship with him and with Emma if that’s what you want. I was wrong to keep that from you, and I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
“Him being brought up after all these years,” she continues, “it brought up everything I thought I’d buried. All the pain, all the anger, all the fear of losing you to the family I kept you from. I thought I could keep him in the back of my mind forever, neverthink about him, never deal with what happened. But you have the right to make your own choices about your relationship with him.”
“Mom, you don’t have to…”
“I do have to. Because I love you more than my own fear, more than my own hurt feelings, more than my need to pretend the past doesn’t exist.” She squeezes my hands tighter. “If you want to talk to Jeremy, if you want to meet him and Emma, if you want to build relationships with them, I support you. Completely. Whatever happens, whatever you decide, I love you and I support you.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, tears threatening to fall. “Thank you for saying that.”
“I should have said it years ago. I should have been brave enough to let you know him when you were little, when it might have been easier for everyone.”
“Maybe. But you did what you thought was right at the time. And you raised me, Mom. You and Robert gave me a good life, a family that loves me. That doesn’t change just because I want to know where else I come from.”
She pulls me into a fierce hug, and we both cry—her from relief at finally letting go of eighteen years of secrets and control, me from the overwhelming realization that I no longer have to choose between loving my mom and wanting to know my father.
When we finally separate, she wipes her eyes and attempts a smile. “Tell me about your trip. I want to hear everything.”
A week passes in the blur of returning to routine. School, soccer practice, homework, time with Derek that feels both more precious and more natural after our Catalina experience.
My upcoming game gets closer—two days away now. Coach Martinez has been running us through drills with increasing intensity, and I can feel my skills sharpening, my focus improving. The heart condition that seemed so scary a few weeks ago has become just another piece of information about my body, manageable and monitored but not limiting.
At lunch on Tuesday, I’m scrolling through Instagram while Maya complains about her calculus teacher when a notification makes my heart stop.
