Page 109 of The Way We Are

“Why, Ryan? You’ve told us it was you. You wrote a formal statement saying it was you. But not once have you said why you killed him.”

Her question stumps me for a moment. When you plead guilty to a crime, you don’t prepare a defense. You just say you’re guilty—case over.

“Because he was...”

My words trap in my throat when my mom curls her hand over mine. She stares at me via lowered lashes, silently warning me to remain quiet like she always has.

I realize now what Damon said months ago was true. She's going to ruin me.

God—I protected her for years, and the one time I need her to stand up for me, she continues protecting him. I don’t know this woman seated next to me. She raised me, but I don’t know who she is anymore.

“I’m sorry I was never good enough, Ma. I’m sorry I never had the chance to show you what a real man is like. But I’ll never be sorry for protecting you. You are my mother, and without you, I wouldn’t be here. I never meant to hurt you; I just wanted him to stop.”

I shift my eyes to the other side of the room for a few moments to gather my composure, the pain in my mom’s eyes too raw to continue looking at her. I want to blame her for everything that happened, but what I said to Damon earlier was true. She's sick, so this isn’t her fault.

My head snaps to the side when a voice as quiet as a mouse squeaks, “Ryan didn’t kill his father.”

I glare into my mom’s eyes, begging for her to be silent as she has done for years. It's lucky I am seated, as the faintest shake of her head has the floor falling out from beneath my feet.

“Don’t do it,” I beg, not even caring that Regina is eyeballing our exchange like a perv at a peep show. “He won’t survive, Ma. This will kill him.”

That's why I took the blame for Damon. He's barely functioning as it is. He would never survive incarceration.

“I know,” my mom replies as her frail hand reaches out to touch my cheek. She brushes away a tear I didn’t know was balancing precariously on my cheek before forcing a weak smile on her face. “You are such a sweet boy, Ryan.” Her smile fades a little when she murmurs, “He used to be the same.”

Before my brain can register any panic that I’m following in my father’s footsteps, my mother’s eyes drift to Regina as she says, “Ryan didn’t kill his father. I did.”

43

Ryan

Over four hours have passed since my mom falsely testified to killing my father. She was formally charged, fingerprinted, and has given numerous statements to both Regina and our lieutenant. One glance at the bruises across her torso resulted in the death penalty being removed from the table. A second glance at her extensive medical records from the past decade downgraded the charge from murder to manslaughter. Even then, the DA was hesitant to prosecute.

“Did you see her extensive injury list? I would have killed him years ago,” she murmured as she paced past me in the corridor.

I’ve sat in a daze for much of the past four hours. I’m in shock, but I’m also pleased. For once, my mother chose us. She protected Damon and me as we protected her our entire lives. She stood up for her children. Although I wish it were done under better circumstances, I’m hopeful this is a step in the right direction.

The man who caused her years of torment is dead—and there's only one way up from rock bottom.

I stop staring at my bare feet when Regina enters the waiting room I’ve been sitting in the past hour. As she hesitantly paces across the room, I search her face, seeking any signs on the outcome of my mom’s confession.

I exhale the breath I am holding in when she mutters, “They’re not going to prosecute. If she hadn’t killed him, he would have killed her.Eventually.” She whispers her last word.

I nod in full agreement. “So what happens now? Can I take her home...?”

I stop talking when Regina shakes her head. “She needs help, Ryan. She's a very sick woman.”

Even knowing what she's saying is true doesn’t make it any easier to hear.

Regina sits in the empty seat next to me before gesturing for me to sit back down. When I do, she explains, “Your mom has agreed to attend an in-house program in New Orleans. They specialize in rehabilitation for victims of abuse. She will learn all the basics again. How to love without fear. To accept praise without anticipating a repercussion. She will heal mentally while also giving her body the nourishment it needs to rebuild her strength.”

The program sounds ideal, but I’m still apprehensive. “How long is the program?” I ask, my tone wary.

Regina runs her hand down my arm, pleased I am still concerned about my mom. That will never change.Never.

“As long as it takes. Some patients are in and out in weeks. Others take a little longer.” The dip in her tone indicates which category she's placing my mom in, the latter.

I lick my bone-dry lips before asking, “Can I see her before she goes?”

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