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CHAPTER SIX — What My Mother Hasn’t Told Me
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2025-11-26 21:33:29( Sophie’s pov)
The house was quiet when we entered—too quiet. The air felt tighter than usual, almost suffocating, like we had brought the tension from the Hale mansion back with us. I tossed my purse onto the sofa, sighing. “God, I am exhausted. Did you see their dining room? That table was longer than a school bus.” Mom didn’t laugh. She didn’t even respond. I didn’t notice at first because I was still mentally replaying Margaret’s perfectly practiced smile, but slowly I felt it—the wrongness in the room. Mom stood in the middle of the living area, arms folded around herself, staring blankly at the floor. I turned to look at her. “Mom?” She jerked, as if she’d been startled. “Yes?” “What’s wrong? You slightly said a word the whole lift home.” She took a slow breath and sat, smoothing the fabric of her dress over her knees like she was trying to control something — her hands, her breath, her nerves. “I’ve got something to tell you, Sophie.” Something in her voice alarmed me. It wasn’t a casual tone. It had the weight of something serious—something ugly. I dropped down next to her on the sofa. “Okay… tell me.” She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her jaw clenched. She looked down at her hands. “I… I saw Ryan before tonight.” I blinked. My first thought: workplace? Maybe at some event? Maybe at a supermarket? “What do you mean? Where?” She swallowed hard. “We met… before.” “Before tonight?” “Yes.” “How? At the office? Through a friend?” She shook her head. “Mom?” Silence. A heavy, suffocating silence. Her eyes lifted to mine — and I swear there was something in them — guilt, fear, sorrow. “You’re being weird,” I muttered, half-laughing to break the tension. “Just say it.” She drew in a sharp breath, like gripping courage that kept slipping away. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t know who he was.” I blinked. “Who Ryan was? I don’t understand—” My phone rang. Ryan. Of course. I almost ignored it — but habit took over. “Hey baby.” His voice was warm and low. “Made sure you got home safe?” “Yeah. Just got in.” “Good. I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight, Soph.” “Goodnight.” I hung up. When I turned back to Mom, she was no longer sitting upright. She was hunched over, elbows on her knees, her hands pressed over her face. She looked like she was… breaking. I softened. “Mom… are you okay?” She didn’t look at me. Didn’t even lift her head. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet — too quiet. “You deserve someone better than Ryan.” I was silent. For a long moment. Then I laughed quietly. “Better?? Mom, I’m marrying him. What are you talking about?” She finally looked at me. Her voice cracked. “He’s not who you think he is.” I rolled my eyes a little. “Oh God — please don’t tell me you’re just intimidated because his family is rich—” “It’s not about the money.” “Then what?” She hesitated. Then whispered: “I’ve made mistakes.” “Mom, everyone makes mistakes—” “No.” She shook her head. “This one… this one could destroy you.” Her eyes filled. “I don’t want to hurt you.” The softness in her voice unsettled me. For a moment, I saw her not as my mother but as a woman with a past a woman with pain a woman with secrets. We both sat in that heavy silence. Finally I reached out and touched her hand. “Mom… whatever it is — I’m strong enough to hear it.” She gave a broken little laugh. “I wish that were true.” The clock ticked. The fridge hummed softly. A dog barked somewhere outside. The air was thick. “Mom… please. Just talk to me.” She reached out and placed her palm against my cheek — gently — like I was five years old again. Then she leaned forward and pressed a trembling kiss to my forehead. “I love you more than anything, Sophie.” “I love you too, Mom. And that’s why you should—” She suddenly stood. “I can’t say it tonight. I’m sorry. Please — just go to bed. I’ll tell you… when I’m ready.” I stared at her. Confused. Hurt. “But—” “Please.” Her voice was fragile. Begging. I swallowed my frustration and finally nodded. “Okay.” She gave a weak smile of relief — then retreated to her bedroom like a retreating tide — leaving me sitting alone on the sofa, staring at the empty hallway. That night , I lay awake in bed. Staring at the ceiling. Thoughts twisting. What could be so awful that she couldn’t say it? What could involve Ryan? What could Mom possibly have done? And worse— Why did Ryan get nervous every time Mom spoke? A memory flashed: at dinner — when his hand brushed Mom’s accidentally — she jerked away and he froze. Is there history? Did they argue once? Did he insult her? Did she embarrass herself? Or… Did something happen between them? No. No. That was insane. But the doubt lingered. Slowly, dread began to coil into something darker. The next morning, the smell of freshly made coffee pulled me out of sleep. I found Mom in the kitchen, quietly stirring her cup. Her eyes were swollen — she had cried. “Morning,” I said softly. She nodded. “Morning.” We didn’t speak much. Too much unspoken. Eventually she reached out and squeezed my hand. “We’ll talk. I promise. Just… not yet.” I nodded. “Okay.” But internally? I wasn’t calm. I wasn’t patient. And I wasn’t ready. Because deep inside, one question was growing roots: What exactly happened between my mother and my fiancé?
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