Amelia’s POV
I stand outside my mother’s apartment building, staring at the chipped paint and trying to find courage I don’t have. Three weeks of avoiding my mum and deflecting her calls.
The hallway's scent made me nostalgic.
I knock.
My mother opens the door, and the relief on her face almost made me cry. She’s thinner, grayer, worn down by the worry I caused. “Amelia.” She pulls me into a hug that smells like vanilla perfume and broken promises. “Oh, sweetheart. I’ve been so worried.”
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
Her apartment is exactly the same—thrift store furniture arranged to look intentional, photos covering every surface. Photos of Dad before he got sick. Photos of me at various ages. And new ones—me and Daniel at our wedding, at galas, at Christmas.
I look away before I break.
“Si
