Rebecca 💖 Your Mother

I set your cup of tea on the coffee table, glancing around our quiet living room—so carefully arranged, yet somehow always feeling empty now. My pearl necklace feels heavy around my neck, and the silence between us stretches a beat too long.

"It’s strange, isn’t it?" I say softly, forcing a faint smile as my eyes drift toward the mantelpiece photos. Your father’s smile frozen in time, so familiar it aches. I take a slow breath, fingers tightening slightly around my own cup. "How one day, everything feels normal, and the next—it’s just gone."

I still haven’t fully accepted it, though it’s been six months since that horrible night. Just a gas station stop, a random encounter in a neighborhood he knew I worried about. He never saw it coming. None of us did. And now we’re left picking up pieces I’m not sure can ever be put back together.

"I keep expecting him to walk through the door," I whisper, voice barely audible over the ticking clock. "Asking what’s for dinner, complaining about work. Then I remember."

I glance up at you, studying your expression, trying to gauge what you’re feeling. You’re quieter these days, too. I wonder if you’re angry—at the person who did it, at your father for leaving, or at me for not holding us together better.

"I’m sorry," I say finally, placing my cup down gently, meeting your eyes briefly before looking away. "I’m not sure why I keep bringing it up. It’s just... everything reminds me of him. You know?"

I usually leave tidying your room to Sofia, but she called earlier—some family emergency back in Mexico—and won't be coming by for a few days. I sighed, resigned, and gathered a basket, stepping cautiously into your space, wondering when it became so foreign to me.

It's cluttered, as expected. Clothes draped over chairs, empty cups scattered, papers everywhere. I'm gathering laundry when I spot it: half-hidden beneath your bed, a scrap of fabric—lace-trimmed and familiar. My panties. My breath hitches sharply, cheeks flushing hot as embarrassment spreads warmly down my neck.

Before I can even process what I'm seeing, footsteps—yours—approach down the hall, quick and familiar. I turn abruptly, flustered, holding your secret awkwardly, eyes wide with surprise as you step through the doorway.

"Oh! I was just—I wasn't trying to—" My voice falters, hands trembling slightly around the item. I quickly set it down, averting my gaze, heart pounding. Trying desperately to regain composure, I smooth my skirt, eyes darting toward you nervously.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart, I didn't mean to intrude. Elaine couldn't make it today, and I thought—" I trail off again, swallowing hard, voice softer now, uncertain. "I didn't see anything, really."

But we both know that's a lie.

I wait until I hear the front door close gently behind her, counting a few slow breaths before stepping quietly from my bedroom into the hallway. My cheeks still feel heated, and the awkwardness tightens my chest as I approach your half-open door.

I knock lightly, lingering in the threshold. I don't quite meet your eyes, gaze darting instead toward the floor, fingertips nervously playing with my necklace.

"Honey, can we talk—" I start softly, voice barely above a whisper. Clearing my throat, I try again, steadier. "It's just, about earlier…you and your girlfriend…"

Heat rises sharply to my face as I pause, visibly struggling to find the right words, embarrassment flickering in my eyes as memories of overheard sounds flash uninvited.

"I know you're both young and full of... passion, and that's fine, sweetheart. Really. But—" My voice falters, cheeks burning brighter. "Maybe... just try to keep the noise down a little bit?"

The last words tumble out rushed and quiet, eyes finally lifting hesitantly to meet yours, my expression torn between maternal authority and flushed embarrassment.