CHAPTER 85: “REFLECTIONS AND ROOTS”

The night had been quiet, but sleep had brought no true rest. Even as I woke to the soft hum of the city, a weight lingered in my chest—the kind that wasn’t mine alone, but inherited, carried like a shadow from those who had loved and suffered before me. My thoughts drifted to my mother, Clair, and the years she endured, the battles she fought quietly behind closed doors.

I remembered visiting her when I was younger, catching glimpses of the exhaustion etched in her skin, the tiny tremor in her hands as she held a coffee cup. She had always smiled for me, always put on a brave face, but I knew—knew—that her life had been far from easy. Her husband had been a force I could never fully reconcile with. Once an athlete of remarkable talent, he had been the pride of his family and the town. But after an injury—a sudden, cruel twist that ended his career—everything changed.

I had seen it. The man who once held the world in his hands turned bitter, angry, and cruel. He resented her, blamed her, blamed life. Clair had tried to support him, to hold their world together, but she had been met with coldness and derision instead of gratitude. Every attempt to reason, every gesture of love, seemed to push him further away.

And then there was the child. The one we had surrogated for him and Clair. I remember the hollow ache in her voice when she told me. I can still hear it. The baby, their dream, their hope, had died before ever leaving the hospital. It wasn’t just loss—it was a fracture, a rupture in their lives that never truly healed. My heart ached for her, even now. She had loved that child fiercely, and when it was gone, so much of her joy and trust in the world seemed to vanish with it.

Her husband’s reaction had been… everything I feared and hated. Cold, practical, almost detached. The grief that should have drawn them together was instead twisted into resentment. And soon, divorce became inevitable—he could not bear the life he had, could not reconcile the loss, the injury, the failed dreams. He wanted out. And he took it without remorse, leaving Clair to pick up the pieces of a life that had been ripped apart.

I remember sitting with her, holding her hands, feeling the tiny tremors in her fingers as she whispered, “Sophie… I don’t know if I’ll ever be whole again.”

I didn’t have words. How could I? The pain was too raw, too vast. All I could do was squeeze her hands, let her cry, and let her know that someone saw her, really saw her.

Even now, I understood her better than I ever had. That history—the grief, the betrayal, the relentless weight of expectations and loss—had shaped her into the strong, resilient woman who had loved fiercely despite all of it. And in turn, it had shaped me.

Because when I held my own children, when I felt Lucian’s hand in mine, I thought of her. Of how courage could survive even the worst heartbreak. Of how love could still be found, even after devastation.

I rose from bed and glanced around our home—the safe, chaotic, beautiful life we had built. It was everything she had deserved, and everything I had longed for without even realizing it. I could see now how hard my mother had fought, and I carried that lesson forward: even when the world turned cruel, even when the people you trusted most faltered, life could still be carved into something good.

That morning, I called her.

“Mom,” I said gently when she answered, “how are you feeling today?”

There was a pause, then a shaky breath. “Better,” she admitted, “but some days it’s harder than others. Some days, it feels like it’s all just… too much.”

“I know,” I whispered. “I know it is. But you’re still here. You’re still fighting. And that’s… that’s enough. That’s so much more than most people can do.”

Her voice trembled, and I could hear the weight she carried behind it. “Sometimes… I wonder if I made the right choices. If I could have been stronger. If I could have… prevented him from breaking me.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Mom… none of it was your fault. You did everything you could. You loved. You protected. You fought. That’s all anyone can do.”

There was silence on the other end, soft, reverent. “I wish I could have known… that someone could still love after everything,” she said finally.

I smiled through the ache in my chest. “I think you just need to look at your grandchildren. I think you already see it.”

She laughed softly, a fragile but real sound. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I do.”

And for a moment, I let myself imagine her lighter, not weighed down by her past. Not fully healed—she could never be, and maybe she shouldn’t have to be—but breathing a little easier, feeling a little less burdened.

That memory, that conversation, lingered with me throughout the day. I watched my own children playing, their laughter spilling into every corner of our home. I felt Lucian’s arm around my shoulders, steady and warm, and I realized something: we were the living proof that life could still be beautiful after heartbreak.

Even in the shadow of my mother’s pain, even with the knowledge of her ex-husband’s cruelty and the loss of a child she had loved so deeply, we had carved a space for love, joy, and family. And maybe that was the ultimate triumph—not perfection, not escape from pain, but the courage to build happiness despite it.

I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the sun warm my face. Life had been hard for my mother, yes—but she had endured. She had survived. And so would we.