The Reconciliation That Never Happens
[NOTE: This is the kind of story that you have to read between the lines...every line]
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Lucy parked two blocks away. She told herself it was just easier, but she knew better. Jane’s house was the same, more or less—paint a little duller, the front steps sagging. The kind of decay that happens when people stop keeping up appearances.
She didn’t knock right away. She had been here before. Not here, in front of the house, but in this moment: deciding whether or not to step forward. Every past conversation with her mother had felt like a test—one she never quite passed.
She knocked.
Footsteps. Too quick. Anticipation. Jane had been waiting for this.
The door opened, and there she was. Smaller than Lucy remembered. Frail, but not pathetic. Jane had never been pathetic.
"Well. You actually came."
Not hello. Not anything else. A small war already waged in just those words.
Lucy folded her arms. "Yeah. I did."
Jane stepped aside, leaving space. Not too much. Just enough to make it clear that Lucy was the one who had to cross the threshold.
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Cuts Without Wounds
The tea was already set on the kitchen table. Jane sat, motioning for Lucy to do the same.
"You still drink it with too much sugar?" Jane asked. Neutral words. Loaded words.
Lucy didn’t answer immediately. She could say, ‘Yes, I still do.’ Or she could say, ‘Why does that matter?’
Instead, she just reached for the cup and took a sip. Too hot. A distraction.
"It’s nice of you to come. You’re busy these days."
"I had time."
Had time. Not made time.
Jane tapped her fingers against the table, a soft rhythmic sound. She was calculating.
"You always had a stubborn streak."
Lucy put the cup down. "I guess that’s one way to say it."
Jane exhaled, almost a laugh, but not quite. "Your father used to say the same."
Lucy’s fingers tensed against the table. She wasn’t going to talk about him.
"I wouldn’t know."
"No, you wouldn’t."
Subtext crackled between them.
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The Fragility of Guilt
Jane reached for her own cup, cradling it, her hands thinner than Lucy remembered.
"Doctor says I don’t have long. But I’m sure you heard."
Lucy didn’t move. She could see the chess move for what it was—an attempt at leverage.
"I heard."
Jane sighed, her gaze flicking to the window. "But that’s not your concern, I suppose."
There it was. The guilt trigger. Well-placed. Calculated.
Lucy sat back. "You always knew how to phrase things."
Jane’s mouth twitched. "I don’t know what you mean."
"Yeah. You do."
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Memory is a Weapon
The past was leaking in.
Lucy could still hear echoes of a different conversation, years ago. She was twelve, sitting at this very table.
"Don’t make me the villain."
Jane’s voice had been sharper then. Less brittle, more steel.
Now? Now it was the same argument, repackaged.
"I didn’t call you here to fight," Jane said. As if peace had ever been an option.
Lucy let that settle. Then: "Then why did you call me here?"
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The Reconciliation That Almost Comes
For a moment—just a moment—it seemed like Jane might say something real. Apologize. Admit something.
Her lips parted. She started, "I—"
And then she stopped.
Lucy waited.
Waited.
But the words never came.
Instead, Jane reached for her tea, her hands shaking just a little.
Lucy exhaled. That was it. That was all she was going to get.
"It’s getting late," she said, standing.
Jane didn’t argue. Didn’t ask her to stay. Just nodded.
At the door, Lucy hesitated. Just for a second.
She could say something. Anything.
Jane could say something, too.
But neither of them did.
Lucy walked back to her car, feeling the weight of something unfinished settle into her bones.
The house stood behind her, silent. Still waiting |
