"You have to love fiercely," she murmurs, her hand tracing circles on my back. "Love with intention, even when—especially when—it would be easier to close yourself off. That's when your heart needs to stay open the most."

Looking up at her through blurred vision, I see the strength that's carried us through everything—every scraped knee, every broken heart, every impossible goodbye.

"Mom? Can I sleep here tonight?"

Her smile is warm enough to chase away the last shadows of doubt. "Of course, honey."

I settle against her, letting the steady drum of her heartbeat become my lullaby. Mom's right. The trick isn't to avoid the pain; it's to keep your heart open wide enough to let the light back in.

65. A Flicker Of Hope

CHAPTER 65

A FLICKER OF HOPE

NATE

"Go check on her," Nora says softly, her voice steady and sure, as if she's already traced the path of my inner conflict.

I hesitate, torn between following her upstairs and checking on Mom. The weight of responsibility pulls me in opposite directions, threatening to split me in two. Nora steps closer, her hand rising to cradle my cheek. Her thumb traces my skin with butterfly-light pressure.

"It's okay," she whispers, leaning in to press her lips to mine. The kiss is soft, meaningful—a promise wrapped in warmth. Her hand lingers, heat seeping into my skin, and for a precious moment, I let myself believe in the possibility of okay.

"I'll be fine," she murmurs, pulling back just enough to meet my gaze. "She needs you."

I nod, grateful for her understanding even as reluctance weighs heavy in my chest. She slips inside, the porch light casting her in a warm glow before she disappears. The space between us suddenly feels sharp and electric, like a live wire exposed. I stare at the closed door, gathering courage, before heading to the kitchen.

The quiet clink of glass leads me forward. Mom stands at the counter, dark liquid swirling in her glass, shoulders curved inward like wilting petals. She looks small. Fragile. The sight twists something deep in my gut.

"Mom?" My voice barely disturbs the air.

She startles, quickly wiping tears from her eyes as if erasing evidence.

"Nate," she says, voice thick with emotion. "I didn't hear you come in."

Ignoring the wine glass, I step closer, studying her face. "You okay?"

She releases a shaky breath, avoiding my gaze as she pushes a stack of papers toward me. "I, um…" Her voice catches, and she forces herself to meet my eyes. "They're officially signed."

The weight of those words hits me slowly. The divorce. After years of being chained to Dad's toxic presence, she's finally broken free. Pride and relief war with a complicated knot of emotions I can't name. I pull out a chair, the wood scraping against tile as I lean forward.

"Mom… I'm sorry about what I said⁠⁠—"