Page 68 of The Crafting Con

How could he walk away from this woman?

Tears prick my eyes, emotion flooding my throat.

How could he walk away from us?

My lips part, but all that comes out is a whimper. Mom’s out of her chair in an instant, flying around the desk and folding her arms around me. And the words I’d been working up to say, all of the feelings I needed to voice, melt in her embrace until all that’s left is a twelve-year-old girl crying for her father.

How does it still hurt so much?

“Shh, baby. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Mom’s chin tucks around my neck, her cheek pressed against my hair. Tears drip down my cheeks and pepper the back of her silk blouse. Her arms tighten, drawing me further in. “I’ve got you.”

She doesn’t move, not until the waterworks subside and I garner some small thread of control. When the tears do cease, and I pull back to wipe the last few stragglers, she grazes the side of my face with her manicured fingers, brushing back the stray wisps of hair that have fallen over my eyes. “Want to talk about it?”

I bite my lip. Nod. Then shrug.

My chest aches from holding it all in, but my heart remains stubbornly wary.

My tongue is somewhere in no-man’s-land.

“Come on, then.” She takes my hand, leading me over to the pale green loveseat that rests against the wall. I sit beside her, my hand still tucked within hers. When I don’t say anything, she runs her thumb over my chipped nails. “Our nail appointment is in just over an hour. Do you know what color you’re going to get?”

It’s an innocuous question, one meant to soothe and distract while I gather my wits. But it’s that very question that breaks the dam and loosens my tongue for the first time since the great Dad-cleansing bonfire of five years ago.

“I don’t need to get my nails done,” I breathe out in a rush. “Because I’m not going to prom. Tyler’s going with Maya Diaz. One of the seniors.”

“He’s what?” Mom pales, then flushes with righteous indignation. “How dare he ditch you the day before the dance. Of all the low-down, rotten things to do. No wonder you’re crying.”

“No, Mom. That’s not it at all. In fact, I’m relieved not to be going.” I suck in a breath, lift my chin. Meet her justifiably confused gaze. “I never actually wanted to go. I was only doing it to make you happy. I…I do a lot of things because I think they’ll make you happy.”

A frown tugs at her lips. “What do you mean?”

I force myself not to close my eyes, to keep my gaze steady on hers. “I don’t really like shopping or standing around watching other people play sports, and reality television makes me want to claw my brains out with an ice cream scoop.” When she doesn’t react, I take a breath and press on. “I miss reading manga and making costumes and dressing up for conventions.” I swallow. “And I especially miss hanging out with Declan.”

Mom blinks back at me, the confusion on her face increasing. “Declan Greene? From down the street?”

“Yes,” I whisper. “He was my best friend before”—I hesitate, force the words out—“before Dad left. I stopped hanging out with him because I thought… I thought he would stir up too many memories of Dad. For both of us.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Mom’s arm wraps around me, pulling me into her side. “I knew your dad’s leaving was hard on you, it was devastating to us both, but I had no idea you gave all that up to protect yourself.”

“It wasn’t just for me, Mom,” I say. Soft, yet firm. Bolstering myself with what little courage I can scrape together. “It was also for you.”

Mom’s grip slackens, her face going blank. “I don’t… what do you mean, it was for me?”

Every nerve in my body is screaming at me to shut my mouth and hide under covers until this all blows over. That I’m poking at old wounds that would be better left alone. But if I don’t talk about this now, I may never find the courage to do it again.

“It’s just, after what happened with Dad leaving and you shutting down, I’ve been worried about you slipping back into that depression. I mean, ever since we torched Dad’s stuff that night, you’ve worked really hard to pick yourself up, and I am so, so proud of you for that. But”—I grimace, giving her a little shrug—“there were cracks. Little moments when something would remind you of Dad and the life we used to have together, and I’d see the depression fighting to sink back in. So, I figured I’d do whatever I could to protect you from those reminders.”

I glance up at Mom, and she looks dumbstruck.

Guilt wrenches at my heart, but I force myself to continue. To purge the wound once and for all. “Only lately I’ve realized it isn’t enough. I gave everything up, molded myself into the daughter you always wanted, and still there are cracks. And I just… I don’t think I can hold them all together anymore. Not on my own.”

I slump deeper into the couch. “I’m tired of living entirely for someone else. I want to be me again.”

She covers her mouth, hand trembling. “You never said anything. Never asked for anything, just went about your way as usual. I didn’t realize…” Her eyes close, tears slipping past her lashes. When she opens them, it’s to cup my chin and turn my face to meet her gaze. “Ava Louise Aimes, you have always been the daughter I wanted. Always.”

I try to hold back my tears, but they slide down my cheeks anyway. “I thought maybe I… I was too much like Dad. That you would come to resent the parts of me that remind you of him.”

“Ava, sweetie. Your dad may be a grade-A jackass, but it’s his character that makes him a crappy person. And you have an amazing character. Best I’ve ever seen.” She strokes my chin with her thumb before dropping her hands into her lap. “But in a way, I suppose you’re right. I’m so quick to badmouth anything related to your father. I can see why you’d shy away from them. For that, I am truly sorry.” She takes a deep breath and lets it out with a sigh. “I’ll try to do better, I promise.”