CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 47

EZRA

I didn’t know how long I’d been lying there, staring at nothing. My room was dim, the curtains half-drawn, everything soaked in that late-afternoon blue light that made it feel like time was paused.

My chest ached. My throat burned from holding it all in.

A soft knock broke the silence.

“Ezra, dear?”

Genevieve.

I sat up quickly, wiping my face with the sleeve of my hoodie. “Y-yeah?” My voice cracked like bad audio.

The door opened, and she walked in with a tray of food—rice, stew, and a glass of juice balanced perfectly like she was running a five-star hotel. She always moved with that prim, composed grace, like nothing in the world could catch her off guard.

She placed the tray on my desk and turned to me, her eyes narrowing slightly as she took in my red face.

“You didn’t come down for dinner,” she said in that perfectly polished British accent. “I thought perhaps you’d like a proper meal here.”

“Thank you,” I murmured, staring at the tray.

She tilted her head. “Eat it while it’s warm. I will not have you fainting in the morning because you were too stubborn to eat.”

A weak laugh escaped me. “I won’t faint.”

She gave me the look. That look that shut down any argument.

“Right. I’ll eat,” I mumbled, picking up the spoon.

She stood in the doorway for a moment longer, like she wanted to say something else, but then she just nodded curtly. “Good.” And with that, she left, closing the door behind her.

The silence crept back in, heavy and suffocating.

I took one bite. It tasted good, of course—it always did when Genevieve cooked—but my throat tightened immediately. I tried to swallow, but the lump in my throat got bigger.

The spoon clattered onto the plate.

And then it all just… broke.

The sob ripped through me before I could stop it. I bent over the tray, hands clutching my hoodie, tears hitting the food. All the guilt, the grief, the pressure—it poured out like water bursting through a cracked dam.

I didn’t hear the door open again.

I only realized she was there when the bed dipped beside me.

“Ezra,” Genevieve said softly.

I looked up, eyes blurry. “I’m—I’m sorry, I—”

She held up one gloved hand. “No apologies. Not for this.”

I sniffled. “I’m fine, really—”

She gave me that stern head tilt again. “Clearly.”

I let out a shaky laugh that turned into another sob. “I just… miss her so much.”

Genevieve’s face softened, just slightly. “I know.”

I stared at her lap for a second, my whole body shaking, before something inside me gave up trying to be composed. I leaned toward her slowly, almost like I was asking permission.

To my shock—my actual shock—she shifted, lifted my head gently, and let it rest on her lap.

Genevieve. The woman who once glared at a toddler for sticky fingers.

She smoothed my hair back with her cool, elegant fingers, not saying a word.

And I just… cried.

Ugly, messy crying. The kind that shook my shoulders and made my nose run. The kind I hadn’t let out in years.

“I forgot, Genevieve,” I whispered between sobs. “I forgot the date last night. I was so busy with other things, and I forgot her.”

She looked down at me, expression unreadable. “You did not forget her, Ezra. You forgot a date. That is not the same thing.”

“It feels like it is.”

She sighed softly. “Guilt is a heavy coat to wear. Take it off before it smothers you.”

I choked out a laugh through the tears. “You sound like a motivational poster.”

Her mouth twitched. “I am far too dignified for posters.”

That made me laugh for real, weak and watery.

She kept stroking my hair, and for the first time in a long time, I felt… small. Not in a bad way. Just… held. Even if she’d never admit it.

Eventually, my sobs slowed. My eyelids grew heavy.

“You’re exhausted,” she murmured.

“I have exams,” I mumbled, half-asleep.

“And they will still be there in the morning,” she replied crisply.

Her lap was surprisingly comfortable. The faint scent of her perfume—lavender and something crisp—was oddly calming.

“Genevieve?” I mumbled.

“Yes, dear?”

“Thank you.”

She went quiet for a moment, then said softly, “Sleep.”

And I did.

When I opened my eyes again, the room was dark. The tray of food had been cleared away. The covers were pulled over me.

She must have done it before she left.

The guilt was still there—gnawing quietly at the edges—but it wasn’t as loud anymore.

For the first time all day, my chest didn’t feel like it was splitting open.

I stared at the ceiling and whispered, “Goodnight, Mom.”

And then I drifted back to sleep.