Elara POV
Oh, God. What did he really want from me.
He cleared his throat. "You were always smart. I can imagine how proud your mother would—"
"Don’t talk about her." I snapped. " You weren’t there when she was dying. You weren’t even sober when I buried her. She wouldn’t have forgiven you either, so don’t you dare talk about her."
That silence again. I imagined him sitting on some beat-up couch, still smelling of cigarettes and guilt, blinking at the ceiling like he had nothing else.
“I know I messed up,” he finally said. “God knows I regret it every day.”
---
I closed my eyes, and it all came rushing back.
Seventeen. Summer heat choking the walls of our old apartment. Me standing in front of him with a copy of my tuition invoice in one hand and an empty bank statement in the othe
