Page 57 of Until the Ribbon Breaks

“Also, your mother is here. So, when you’re ready, we can go to my office.”

As he moves to leave, I stop him. “Wait.”

He turns around.

“Is she mad?”

“No one is mad at you, Harlow.No one.”

He steps out and closes the door behind him.

Once I’m changed, I knock to let him know I’m ready, at least on the outside. On the inside, I’m brimming with dread. As we walk down the hall and out the doors, I can hear the voices of everyone inside the rec room. Tension grips me, and when we pass, I shamefully duck my head. I hear their whispers. Dr. Amberg does too, and he places his hand on my shoulder before leading me through another set of doors.

My palms sweat as we get closer to his office, and when he opens the door and I see my mother standing in the center of the room, I let go of all my resistance, walk straight into her arms, and cry. Despite all the resentment I harbor toward her, I cling to her because I have nothing else to cling to.

She’s my mother; and she’s here.

Holding me in her arms, she weeps with me as her hand smooths my ratty hair. I’m so defeated in my anguish that I feel like a small, needy child, desperate for someone—anyone to swoop in and save me. To gather all my mangled pieces and fix me because I’m broken—I’m so broken, and I don’t know why.

She takes my head in her hands and looks at me.

Tears stream down my face, and I give her a painful, “I’m sorry.” I’m not apologizing for what I did, but for what I am.

“Oh, honey,” she murmurs before pulling me back into a tight hug.

We stand like this for a moment longer before our arms fall away from each other and we dry our tears. When she runs her hand along my cheek, she tells me through thick emotions, “I love you so much.”

But how could she when I’m so unlovable?

“I was so scared I was going to lose you.”

I buckle beneath her words, unsure of how to respond. Being pitied, judged, and scrutinized is a hard mix of feelings to wade though. For them to know this about me, something that’s so intrinsically personal is something exponentially harder to navigate.

I often wonder if my mother is disappointed that she didn’t get the daughter she wanted and if she sees me as nothing but a letdown.

Not like she would ever admit the truth to those things.

“Why don’t we take a seat?” Dr. Amberg suggests before Mom and I settle ourselves on the couch.

She takes my hand in hers and her eyes drop to the large bandage wrapped around my wrist.

She’s horrified.

She doesn’t understand.

No one can.

“First, I want to start by letting you know,” he says, addressing my mom, “that both Dr. Benson and I have evaluated Harlow, and we feel that she’s ready to return to the group and that she’s no longer a danger to herself. So, today, she will be making that transition.”

“Oh, okay.” Her tone is hesitant and uncertain. “Don’t you think it’s too soon? I mean, what if ... is she ... is she safe?”

“Mom, I’m fine.”

“You’re fine?” She shakes her head and squeezes my hand as her eyes well with fresh tears. “Honey, you could’ve died.”

I’m motionless when she states the obvious. Of course, I could’ve died. That was the whole point. I wanted to end all this misery and be free. In that very moment, I wanted it so badly.

“You’re my daughter. I can’t imagine life without you.” She takes the tissue Dr. Amberg hands her and dabs it along the crest of her cheeks. “You’re my world.”

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