Tension coils in my muscles, my heart drumming a warning beat.

"Okay."

"The drugs," she says carefully, each word carrying the weight of sleepless nights and unanswered prayers. "Have you really stopped?"

I exhale slowly, fingers raking through my hair as memories of darker days flash through my mind like lightning in a storm.

"I haven't touched anything in weeks," I admit, the truth both bitter and sweet on my tongue. "Since the beginning of summer."

Her shoulders sink with relief, but the words aren't finished clawing their way out of my chest. That night flashes through my mind with brutal clarity—the fear in Nora's eyes when she saw what I'd become. That look, like I was a stranger wearing familiar skin. It gutted me. Left a wound I never want to reopen.

"I almost slipped up after Dad showed up here,” I confess, my voice dropping to match the heaviness in my chest. "Nora stopped me."

The memory floods back. That first night at the beach party, when Nora looked at me like I was someone else entirely. Someone dangerous. Someone she couldn't trust. And in that moment, I knew I couldn't be that person anymore.

Not for her. Not for Mom. Not for myself.

Mom's hand reaches out, trembling as she cradles my face. The touch is so gentle it aches.

"You've come so far," she whispers, voice breaking with emotion that mirrors my own. "I see you trying, Nate. And I'm so proud of you."

Her words wash over me, soothing the wound I've been carrying so long I forgot it was there. Her eyes find mine, and I watch something shift behind them, like hope breaking through storm clouds, tentative but determined.

"It's in the past now, all of it," I say, my voice soft. "I'm more focused on the future. And you should be too."

She nods, the motion starting hesitant before gaining strength, like she's letting the words take root somewhere deep inside.

"You're right," she says, her voice finding its footing. "And… I am. I'm trying."

Then she does the thing I've been silently praying she'd find the strength to do for years. She reaches for the bottle of red wine on the counter, fingers wrapping around its neck like she's confronting an old enemy. My heart clenches, caught between wanting to take this battle from her and knowing this has to be her choice. With a breath that sounds like courage, she tips the bottle over the sink. The wine spirals down the drain in a crimson rush, taking years of pain with it. The glass follows, emptying itself like a final confession. The smile that touches her lips isn't triumphant—it's fragile as a new leaf in spring—but her eyes, though red-rimmed, hold something I haven't seen in years. Resolve.

I realize I've been holding my breath only when she looks at me and says, "We're both going to do better."