That sentence hits me hard, with more force than anything else she could have said. Because that’s always what I’ve told myself when it comes to Cassia. It feels like I’m having a conversation with my own insecurities.

“I wasn’t meant to be a mother,” she continues. “I never wanted to be a mother. I was a kid, younger than you, when I had you.”

“What’s your point?”

“I don’t have one. I’m sorry—sorry you got me as a mother. Your dad promised me he’d be there. Instead, he was out. Working. Doing God knows what with God knows who.”

“Providing for us, you mean?”

“Your father wasn’t perfect, Holden. I know I’m a low bar. But me leaving forced him out of some bad habits. If I hadn’t, you would have ended up with two crappy parents, not just one.”

Part of me wants to ask what she means. But most of me doesn’t want to know. Delving into my parents’ train wreck of a relationship won’t bring my dad back or change who my mother is.

“You should go.”

“Okay.”

My mom doesn’t offer any resistance, and that stings, even though it shouldn’t. She abandoned me, and still there’s some part of me that doesn’t hate her. How can she feel nothing toward me?

She walks away, toward a black hatchback parked across the lot. I climb into the cab of my truck, not wanting her to see me standing here, watching her walk away from me again. Part of me wants to fling more questions at her, demand answers and apologies.

But I know none of them will be satisfying. She made a decision that can’t be undone. Even if she did regret it, it wouldn’t change anything. I don’t think I’m capable of forgiving that choice.

For a minute, I stew. I don’t want to go home. Can’t deal with watching Sydney go through my dad’s things or forcing smiles around me.

My emotions are swirling close to the surface. I need an outlet or some sort of release. If Declan hadn’t paused fights for the winter, I’d be texting him right now.

I turn on my truck and head for the old high school. The only stop I make is at the seedy liquor store on the fringe of town.

The guy behind the register recognizes me. Knows I’m in high school and underage. But he just eyes me with pity as I check out, not even asking to see my fake ID.

I’m so sick of the pity. Sick of a lot of things.