Becca

I walked through the door to my apartment the next day and was immediately greeted by the smell of freshly baked cookies. I had spent the entire day helping Cassie redecorate her room, so to say I was starving was an understatement.

Walking into the kitchen, I spotted my mother peering into the oven, the light illuminating her face. She was wearing an apron, her hair pinned back into a loose knot on her neck.

"What's the occasion?" I asked while walking to the table. I placed my bag on it and watched my mother curiously.

She turned to me and smiled warmly. "No occasion. Just baking for my daughter," she said, but she wouldn't meet my eye. She grabbed a sponge from the sink and began to wipe down the counter.

Something was wrong. My mother never bakes. Never. The last time she did was before my father left. Her shoulders slouched as she scrubbed the counter. The smile left her face and she was too focused on her hands, her brow furrowed as whatever she was thinking so hard about consumed her.

"Mom," I began, walking up to her and taking the sponge out of her hand. "What's going on?"

"Nothing!" She replied too quickly, the fake smile returning to her face once more. "Let me get you some milk, love." She walked over to the cupboard and took out a glass, filling it with milk from the fridge.

"Mom, stop," I grabbed the glass out of her shaking hand. She looked as if she was about to cry. "Tell me what's wrong," I begged her, my mind going a mile a minute.

"Becca..." She trailed off, her eyes wandering around the kitchen before resting on mine. She took a deep breath and crossed her arms. "I'm leaving this week for a business trip," she told me slowly.

My mom had gone on plenty of trips in the past for work, at least once a year. Whenever she left, I would spend the few days at Cassie's house with her parents. This wasn't something out of the ordinary, so why was my mother acting so strange?

"Okay," I laughed, not understanding her odd behaviour. "I'll spend the week with Cassie, like I always do." I told her, shrugging as I took a sip of milk.

"Becca," her voice was strained. The smile left my face when I took in the look on hers. I dreaded the words she would say next.

"I've been speaking to your father." My mother's words were cut off as the glass slipped from my hand, falling to the floor and shattering into a hundred tiny fragments.

No.

I stared at my mother, frozen while words escaped me. She was staring down at the glass on the floor, a tear spilling down her cheek. Her eyes met mine and she suddenly looked nothing like the woman who raised me.

"He wants to make amends with you," she said softly. She took a step towards me with her arms out stretched. I stepped back quickly, out of reach.

The glass crunched under my shoes, filling the tense silence that loomed in the air.

The subject of my father was something I had avoided for the past six years. I buried him deep down in my heart and in my mind, preferring to forget about it than to actually face the hurt and the pain. I turned the sadness into hatred, it was easier to cope with the idea of hating him than the idea of missing him.

But now, it felt as if the hundreds of emotions I had hid were being dug up with a sharpened knife, cutting their way through my body as they weighed down my heart once more.

"He wants you to stay with him for the week that I'm gone," she said quickly.

I couldn't believe the words escaping my mother's lips. I pinched myself and blinked rapidly, hoping this was a nightmare I would wake up from.

Pinch. Blink.

I was still here. I couldn't escape.

"No." I said, my voice stern. I bent down in a daze to pick up the glass with my hands. My mother continued to speak but I couldn't hear anything she was saying. My head was buzzing and my vision was blurry. Was I crying? I blinked away the tears and picked up the glass, trying desperately to clean the only mess that I could control.

"Ow!" I cried out as a piece of glass pierced my hand, leaving a long gash on my skin. Blood began to ooze out quickly, dripping onto the floor and staining the tiles red.

My mother bent down and reached out to me again, but I stood up quickly before she could touch me. I held my hand to my chest, blood staining my grey sweater.

"Becca," my mother choked out. She was crying too, her face contorted into sadness.

The cookies were burning in the oven. I could smell it. Neither of us moved to shut it off. We let them burn.

"He said he's changed," she whispered. "He's always loved you so much, you know that. He wants to make things right with you."

I stared at my mother in shock, unable to process what she was saying. All those nights I laid awake in bed crying after he left came flooding back. All the nights I watched my mother mop around, pretending that nothing was wrong, but I knew better. Even as a kid, I always knew better.

His departure ruined the both of us. How could she possibly think I would forgive him? That I would give him another chance? I wouldn't.

My mother, the one person who had always protected me no matter what, felt like a stranger.

I turned my back to her, quickly grabbing my phone off the table as I ran to the door.

"Becca!" She yelled behind me, her voice full of pain and tears. I walked through the door without a single glance back.

I ran to the elevator. With my phone in my non-bleeding hand, I dialled his number before I even knew what I was doing.

I knew I lost this privilege, to call Brett whenever I wanted to. To ask him for help and for comfort. But in this moment, he was the only person I wanted to talk to because he was the only person who would understand what I was going though.

I pressed the phone to my ear, desperate to hear his voice.

Please pick up, I thought. The phone rang and rang. Please.

"Becca?" His voice was deep and full of surprise, awakening every bit of me that had been shut-off since our fight at school. The sound of it made me cry even harder, knowing that I pushed him so far away yet he was still here.

"Are you crying? What's wrong?" His said quickly, his voice urgent. I slid down the wall of the elevator, burying my head in my arms as my throat burned, each sob more painful than the previous.

"Are you at home?" Brett asked, his voice hard. I could hear him moving quickly in the background and then the sound of keys jingling.

"Yes," I managed to croak, breathing deeply to stop the pain that rocked me.

"I'll be there in a minute," he said. The phone went dead after that. I shoved it into my bag and cried even harder at the betrayal I felt.

My mother was my best friend. The one person I could always count, aside from Cassie. She was my rock, the strongest person I knew. But everything I felt for her was crumbling around me as I replayed her words over and over again.

How could she do this to me? She really thinks I could forgive my father...

I wouldn't. Never. Someone who abandons their family for another woman is a coward. They don't deserve a second chance. They don't deserve forgiveness. They deserve nothing, not even my tears.

I wiped my fingers under my eyes, drying the wetness off my skin. I picked myself up off the floor right as the elevator doors opened.

Walking through the lobby, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror beside the entrance doors. My hand was pinned to my chest, my shirt covered in deep red blood. My hair was a mess, blond strands falling out of my ponytail and sticking to my forehead. My eyes were red, swollen and blotchy.

I looked away quickly, ashamed at the person who stared back at me.

I pushed through the doors and I felt like I could breathe again. I inhaled deeply and finally became aware of the painful throbbing in my hand. I pressed it closer to my chest and winced at the sting.

Sitting on the bench, I waited for Brett to arrive. Brett, the boy who still came to my rescue even when I didn't deserve it. He didn't even hesitate when I called him, he dropped everything for me without so much as an explanation. I don't deserve him at all.

I pulled my knees to my chest and stared ahead of me blankly, feeling as if my mind was detached from my body.

My throat ached. My palm throbbed. My head felt dizzy. And my heart felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

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