CHAPTER 2
1845 Words
**CHAPTER TWO**
"THE ACCIDENT"
ALLISON | PRESENT TENSE
“I think…” I swallow, the words scraping against my throat. “I think you taught me fear.”
For the first time that evening, my mother does not answer.
She stands frozen behind the counter, the velvet box resting in her hands while the refrigerator hums softly and snow drifts lazily past the front window. It should be an ordinary silence.
It is not.
When she finally looks at me, hurt fills her eyes.
“I taught you how to survive.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is when you don’t have a choice.”
“But we always have a choice.”
“No, Allison.” Her voice sharpens. “We didn’t.”
Something inside me snaps.
“When?” I ask, louder than I intend. “When exactly do we stop saying that? Because I’ve been hearing it my whole life. We can’t afford this. We can’t afford that. Next year. Maybe later. One day.”
A brittle laugh escapes me.
“I’m twenty-four, Mom.”
“I know how old you are.”
“Do you?” I shoot back. “Because sometimes it feels like you still think I’m ten.”
“I think you’re acting ten right now.”
The words land harder than either of us expects.
I stare at her, searching for any sign she wants to take them back.
“You really think that’s what this is?”
“I think you spent money we don’t have on something we didn’t need.”
“No.” My voice rises before I can stop it. “I spent money I earned on something I wanted.”
“Wanted.”
She repeats the word as though it is dangerous.
“There it is.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’ve always done that.”
“Done what?”
“You make wanting something sound like a mistake.”
“I make it sound expensive.”
“You make it sound selfish.”
“It can be.”
“No!” The word bursts out of me, echoing through the little shop. “No, it isn’t! Not everything has to be about surviving!”
The customer in the drinks aisle glances over. Neither of us notices.
“I’m tired,” I say, breathing uneven. “Do you know what it’s like to feel guilty every single time you buy something for yourself? To stand in a*****e and put things back because your voice is in my head telling me they’re unnecessary?”
Her face pales.
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Silence settles between us, heavy enough to make the shop feel even smaller.
“You looked at me like I was wasting money.”
“I was worried.”
“You were disappointed.”
“I was scared!”
Her palm slams against the counter. The sharp crack echoes. The customer startles.
“I was scared because every dollar matters!”
“So does every birthday!”
The words explode out of me. “You’ve worked every birthday I can remember. Every Christmas. Every holiday. Every time I tried to celebrate you, you found a reason not to.”
“I was working so you could eat!”
“I KNOW!”
Even I am startled by how loudly it comes out. My voice shakes with everything I have swallowed for years.
“I know that! I’ve always known that!”
Tears burn behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. “I know you worked yourself sick for me. I know you gave up everything. But I’m tired of paying for it.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, I want them back.
My mother’s expression changes. Not with anger. With something worse. Quiet disbelief. As though she has spent years preparing for a thousand accusations and never imagined this one.
“…Paying for it?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“You did.” Her voice is frighteningly quiet. “I spent twenty-four years trying to give you a life better than mine… and all you remember is what I couldn’t give you.”
“No.” I shake my head. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“I meant…” My voice cracks. “I’m tired of feeling guilty for wanting more.”
She looks at me for a long time. Long enough that I have to fight the urge to look away.
“So that’s what you think of me.”
“No.”
“You think I wanted this life?”
“I never said that.”
“You think I enjoyed telling you no?”
“I KNOW YOU DIDN’T!”
The words tear out of me. The customer abandons his basket and slips quietly out of the shop. Neither of us notices.
“Then why,” she asks, voice trembling, “are you standing here making me feel like I ruined yours?”
The question hits harder than anything else tonight.
She is not crying. That makes it worse.
My mother stands perfectly still, fingers curled tightly around the edge of the counter, knuckles white. The velvet box sits forgotten beside the register. She opens her mouth, closes it, then draws a slow, shaky breath.
“I’m sorry,” she says at last, quieter than I have ever heard her. “I didn’t mean that.”
I lower my eyes to the necklace box, tracing its edge with my thumb because it is easier than looking at her.
“I know.”
Those two words should ease the tension. Instead they settle like another layer of silence.
She steps around the counter, hesitating halfway, apron brushing the display shelf. Her hand reaches toward me, then stops in midair. For a second she looks uncertain, as though she no longer knows if she is allowed to comfort her own daughter.
“Allison…”
“I can’t do this tonight.” The words come out tired. “If I stay, we’re just going to keep hurting each other… and I don’t want to remember your birthday like this.”
I slip the necklace back into my bag, adjust the strap, and force a smile that feels wrong. “I’ll return it tomorrow.”
She gives the smallest nod.
I turn before I can change my mind, push open the door, and step into the freezing night. The bell chimes softly behind me. Cold air rushes across my face. I stand there for a second, breathing into my hands, then reach into my coat pocket for my earphones.
Music has always been my escape.
I slip the earbuds in, scroll through my playlist, and turn the volume higher than I should. The melody muffles everything until only the rhythm remains as I start walking.
Behind me, the shop door opens again.
“Allison!”
I do not hear her.
My mother hurries onto the pavement in only her thin cardigan, one hand clutching her phone, the other waving frantically.
“Allison!”
The music swallows her voice.
When I do not stop, she dials my number, fingers trembling.
My phone vibrates. Mom Calling.
I stare at the screen. A few minutes ago I would have answered before the second ring. Now all I hear are the words we threw at each other. I let it ring, then press decline and slip the phone back into my pocket. We both need time to cool down.
Behind me, my mother watches the call disconnect. Relief softens her face for one fragile second.
Then she looks past me.
Her relief vanishes. Her eyes widen. The color drains from her face as she sees the headlights bearing down on the crossing I have already stepped toward.
The phone slips from her hand and clatters onto the pavement.
She runs.
“ALLISON!”
The scream tears through the winter night.
I never hear it.
The music is still playing as I step off the curb without looking. Headlights explode through the darkness. A horn blares. Even through the music it reaches me a fraction of a second too late.
Time stretches.
One heartbeat becomes ten. Snowflakes tumble through the beams. Tires scream against frozen asphalt. My pulse hammers.
I freeze.
The gift bag slips from my fingers. The velvet box bounces once on the road before the wind catches the ribbon.
Someone screams my name.
Then everything happens at once.
Arms crash into me from behind, driving the breath from my lungs. I am hurled sideways. My shoulder slams against the pavement. Pain explodes, white-hot. My earphones fly free.
The impact comes a heartbeat later.
A violent crash. Twisting metal. Shattering glass.
Then… silence.
The kind that exists only inside a mind too shocked to understand what it has just witnessed.
I force myself upright. My vision swims. Warm blood trickles near my temple. Every instinct tells me to stay down.
Instead one thought pushes everything else aside.
Something is wrong.
Terribly wrong.
The world rushes back.
“Oh my God!”
“Call an ambulance!”
“Someone help her!”
I snap my head toward the middle of the street.
At first I see only the crumpled front of the car, steam curling from beneath the twisted hood. Then my eyes catch a single black shoe. Worn thin along one side. The familiar cardigan. Her apron. One outstretched hand.
And beneath her… blood.
It spreads quietly across the frozen road, dark beneath the streetlights as snowflakes drift into it and disappear.
Everything inside me stops.
I do not remember crossing the road.
One second I am standing there. The next I am on my knees beside her, icy asphalt biting through my jeans.
“Mom…”
Nothing.
My fingers shake as I reach for her hand. It is still warm.
“Mom…”
I laugh — a small, broken sound that does not belong to me. “This… this isn’t funny.”
Nothing.
“Please.”
People shout around us. Someone grabs my shoulder. I shove them away.
“No!”
I wrap both hands around hers, as though holding on tightly enough could keep her here.
“You can’t…” My voice collapses. “You can’t leave me.”
A phone lies on the road beside us. Its cracked screen flickers. 12:00 A.M. A notification slides across: Reminder: Mom’s Birthday. Buy cake after work. Make her smile today. ❤️
Buy cake.
Make her smile.
Instead I made her run after me.
I made her step into the road.
“No…”
The word barely reaches my own ears.
Then I look at her face again.
And something inside me breaks.
A scream tears out of my throat. It rips through the freezing night, ragged and desperate, as I cling to her hand and scream her name again and again.
“Mom!”
“Mom!”
“MOM!”
She never answers.
- Writer
