PART 2
My mother got home at dawn with her nurse uniform completely wrinkled, her hair a mess, and her eyes looking way too bright. She didn’t look tired from a long shift. She looked totally desperate.
She walked into the house without even asking how Graham was doing.
“Where is Austin?” was the very first thing she asked.
I was sitting in the kitchen, holding my phone next to a folder full of photos showing Graham’s bruised face, Austin’s nasty texts, and his clothes scattered on the grass outside.
“He’s not coming back here,” I told her.
My mom let out a dry, fake laugh.
“That’s not your choice to make, Nellie,” she said.
“If you let him back in this house, I’m calling the cops immediately,” I replied.
Her face changed fast, showing a look of absolute panic mixed with anger.
“Don’t you dare ruin this family,” she said.
“He ruined it the second he put his hands on Graham,” I told her.
“Graham needs to be disciplined,” she muttered.
I felt a cold chill go straight down my back.
“You did not just say that,” I whispered.
My mother looked down at the floor. For the first time, I saw something that scared me way more than her words, which was deep guilt. It wasn’t guilt for letting Graham get hurt, but guilt because she got caught.
For months, I had been finding weird things around the house like burnt metal spoons in the bathroom, rolls of aluminum foil hidden behind the trash, random nosebleeds, and crazy mood swings. But I had refused to see what was happening. My mom had a really bad drug problem when I was a little kid, which was why I spent a year in foster care, a time I still hate thinking about because it makes me sick.
I really wanted to believe that part of our lives was over.
But standing there in the kitchen, I knew it wasn’t.
“Mom,” I said slowly, “look at me and tell me you’re not using drugs again.”
She didn’t move an inch.
“Don’t start with me, Nellie,” she muttered.
“Tell me the truth,” I said.
“I’m tired,” she replied.
“Tell me,” I demanded.
She slammed her hand down on the kitchen table.
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