Page 68 of Deceitful Bond

Emma texted me the bad news that Dad’s condition had worsened, and he had to be admitted. Our father lies asleep in his bed, hooked up to machines that hum, beep, and keep him alive.

“Paige, you’re here.” Emma runs toward me, and I catch her in my arms. I hold her tight as if I could take her with me. She steps back, and her gaze travels over my new dress and the fussy hairstyle.

“It’s good to see you.” I hold her at arm’s length, forcing a sincere smile onto my face. Emma’s clear skin has broken out into a rash of pimples over her cheeks and chin. Her hair is dull, frizzy, and scraped back into an overly tight ponytail. The poor kid looks like she’s carrying the weight of our family’s misfortunes on her tiny back. And she is. While I’ve been fighting with Andrei, I left her alone to deal with this mess.

“I’m okay,” Emma replies, as if she can read minds. “But I’ve been worried about you. What happened? Where have you been?”

Concern disappears and turns into an interrogation. Except for the bandage, I do not look like I’ve been kidnapped or mistreated.

“We’ll talk later.” I halt in place as my eyes focus past the bed on the woman sitting beside Dad. Apprehension gives way to anger, and anger is replaced with simmering hate. “What’sshedoing here?”

Emma clasps her hands together and rocks up on her toes. “Mom came back, Paige!”

Our mother, Cynthia Reyes, left when I was thirteen and Emma was six. I wondered if I would recognize her if I ever saw her again. That question has been put to rest now.

Something beyond her aging looks tells me it’s her. Her hair is darker than I remember, but streaks of gray glint under the overhead light. Her face is a little rounder, but her smile remains the same. Not that we saw much of it before she ran out on us.

I would’ve run in the other direction if I had seen her on the street. I would’ve pretended not to know her as my hate choked my throat. Every ounce of control is keeping me from screaming in her face now. I’m surprised the hate in me is as fresh as it was on the day she left.

My feelings haven’t changed.

I resent her for coming back into our lives, as if she has a right to be here while my dad lies dying. We don’t need her anymore.

I can still remember the years leading up to their inevitable break. When she would bring men home, not caring that my father was there and use their bedroom. Emma was too young to understand, and I did my best to shield her from what I knew while I sat with dad and watched him drink away the humiliation with tears in his eyes.

And every time, they’d fight after her latest lover leaves. Drunken shouting matches that would scare me into my room with Emma, where I tried to distract her from the reality of our broken family.

And it seemed like my distractions worked. Because Emma squeezed my hand, smiling, and said. “Isn’t it great? Mom came back.”

Cynthia sits and waits with wide, uncertain eyes. Is she expecting a hug? Does she expect gratitude for gracing us with her long overdue presence? Should I be thankful that she decided to return after we suffered for ten years without her?

After she humiliated dad so openly like that?

I look at my dad, barely conscious in his bed and worn thin from his treatment. He’s barely aware that she’s present. For ten years, I slaved like an animal, being everything to everyone that she left behind. Does she think I want her here now?

Cynthia stands from the chair and looks at me expectantly.

“How long do you plan on staying?” The bitterness seeps into my harsh voice. The vitriol would’ve made a lesser person wince with shame. But not Cynthia Reyes. The woman stares at me as if my tone is disrespectful. As if I am still a child.Her child. Not anymore. I haven’t been a child since the day she ran away.

“Paige.” Her gaze matches mine. “You look well. Your sister says you’ve been gone for a month.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s still nine years and eleven months short of a decade.”

Cynthia presses her lips together. Is she annoyed that I brought that up? Hurt? I don’t care. She has no right to compare our situations.

“Your cousin Kenney told me that your father was sick.” She places her hand on his bed. “I thought I should come and see him.”

“To gloat?” I ask.

“Paige.” Emma looks annoyed as my truth bomb goes off. “Mom says she’ll help out.”

I shake my head. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Maybe we should speak in the hall,” replies Cynthia.

I look over at Dad, whose eyes are shut, and wonder if he’s really asleep. I walk out into the hallway and wait. Cynthia stands beside me, and in a low voice, I tell her what I have to say.

“Why are you here?” I ask. “He doesn’t have any money. Why don’t you just leave us be?”

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