When I’m done, I feel lighter. Like I can breathe. I drop my head in her lap. “I love you,” I say. “I’m sorry I failed you.”

Amya and I wait in silence as we prepare to say goodbye.

But a moment later, someone touches my hair, fingers softly running through it. I look up, and she’s staring at me.

“Mother?” I ask. I can’t remember the last time she moved or touched me or even noticed I was here. Her eyes. For the first time in decades, her eyes are awake. They fill with tears that remain suspended just on the edge of everything.

“You never failed me,” she says so softly that I must strain to hear it. “It was I who failed you, Nadir. Over and over. If I had just been strong enough to stand up to him . . .”

Her hand falls from my head, her lips pressing together as a tear finally slips down her cheek, curving under her chin.

“No,” I say, taking her hand in mine and pressing it to my face. “You did the best you could. He is a monster.”

She closes her eyes and inhales deeply, her head shaking slightly as if disagreeing. Another tear streaks down her cheek. “You found your mate,” she says, looking at me before her mouth curls into the ghost of a smile. “All I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy.”

She leans over and presses her nose to the top of my head, inhaling deeply like she’s pulling me into her soul.

“Do whatever you need, my boy. Whatever you need to be free of him.”

“But this is it,” I say. “Your life here is over.”

“It was over so many years ago. I’m ready. I only wanted what was best for you, to protect you, and I did such a poor job of that. All I can do is try to live with that guilt.”

“Don’t,” I say. “When you get to the Evanescence, be free of this. Okay? I don’t want you to feel guilty for anything.” I squeeze her hand.

Another tear slides down her cheek, and then her gaze moves to Amya, who watches her with a mixture of fear and vulnerability on her face.

“I’m sorry,” Mother says. “I’m sorry that I never had the chance to know you.”

Amya’s face pulls together, her lower lip trembling as she sniffs. She wipes an errant tear with the back of her wrist.

“And I’m sorry that I let him take you from me. I always wanted a daughter,” she whispers, and there’s so much heartbreak in it that my chest nearly cracks.

Amya chokes out a sob, and then she dives forward, wrapping her arms around Mother’s neck and sobbing against her.

“I’m sorry,” Amya says. “I should have come here more. I should have tried harder to understand, too.”