Annelly (Cont'd)

And there it is: the truth that hurts the most. 

I came back from New York unexpectedly, showed up with bruises on my face, and a terrified look in my eyes, and not once did my mother ask what happened or why I showed up unannounced in the dead of night. Instead, her only words to me that night were, “I have to be at the diner at five a.m. tomorrow. If you want to pick up a shift, you’ll need to text me before I leave.”

 The next night, when I told her I wouldn’t be returning to Julliard, her response was just as indifferent. “This is good, honey. I’m sorry things didn’t work out, but as I’ve always said, Ruby Creek is where you belong. I have a feeling this is for the best. You’ll see.”  

That passive-aggressive I told you so nearly had me turning right around to go back to New York. The only reason I didn’t was my fear of Victor.

“You’re wrong. I am concerned for you,” she says, her tone shifting to that maddening mix of exasperation and righteousness she always uses to justify her actions. “But I also have a responsibility to the diner—our patrons and our employees. I need to know what kind of trouble you’re in, Annelly. My job here is to protect both you and the legacy your dad worked so hard to provide for us.” 

And there she goes, predictable as ever, throwing the dead dad card at my feet like a weapon. 

“You either tell me what’s going on, or I’ll have no choice but to pull you off the schedule.”

The words setter over me like a slap, but I don’t flinch. Instead, I lean into the simmering anger, letting it steady me.

“So, I was right. This is about you and the diner.” I fire back, each word cutting deeper than I intend. “Because if you actually cared about my safety, you’d want me here. Surrounded by the people of this town, all of whom would be more than happy to keep their eyes on me.”

The words are barely out of my mouth before the ache in my chest sharpens, my own accusations slicing through me like jagged glass. It’s one thing to feel like your mother doesn’t like who you are. It’s an entirely different thing to realize she might not care at all. 

After last night, I thought—no, hoped—she’d be worried out of her mind. When the panic attack ended with the police showing up, when I finally blurted my fears to Mr. Kev and Chief Keller, everything I said came from a place of genuine terror. 

 I thought I saw him—Victor—standing outside the diner. Watching me. That condescending smirk on his face chilled me to the bone and made me lose my mind with panic. 

In that moment, it felt so real. 

So real that even now, hours later, I’m still struggling to understand how the heck I got it so wrong. 

“I am worried about you, but you refuse to talk to me.” Her voice wavers between frustration and something softer, but I’m too angry and hurt to care. 

“It was Chief Keller who told me what you’re going through. That last night, you thought you saw a man you met in New York… that you think he’s stalking you. And Mr. Kev…” She pauses as though bracing herself. “This isn’t the first time he’s come to me with concerns. For weeks now, he’s been saying something’s off with you. That you’re scared and jittery, especially after close. That when he walks you to your car, you’re constantly looking over your shoulder like you’re afraid someone’s watching. That you’re even worried for his safety.”

Her words hit me like a blow, each one heavier than the last, but she’s not done. She sighs, dropping her head like she’s searching for strength or maybe just a way to soften what she’s about to say. 

“As your mother, I can’t in good conscience leave you on the schedule if you aren’t safe here. It’s my job to keep you home, where I know you’ll be safe. Especially if whatever you’re running from also puts our employees or customers in danger. Until you tell me what’s going on, you’re leaving me no other choice.”

I feel my composure crack, the weight of her words pulling at the seams of my carefully held restraint. 

“You never brought it up,” I hiss, my voice low but trembling with the fury threatening to boil over. “Not once.”

Emotion claws at my throat, rising faster than I can suppress it, but I push forward, voice shaking as my anger tangles with raw, aching hurt.

“Not once in the two months since that night I came back did you ever ask me what was wrong. You didn’t care enough to say a word.” My voice wavers again, breaking under the pressure of everything I’ve been holding back. 

“I know,” she says, her voice softer now, almost pleading. “Because when I try to talk to you, you get defensive. When I push, you shut down further. I didn’t ask you what happened to make you come home because I was afraid it would only make things worse between us. I wanted to give you space—to wait you out until you were ready to talk to me.”

Argh… my god! 

Does she even hear herself? Does she not remember that she’s the one who made it impossible for me to come to her? She’s who all but declared that if I went to school in New York, I’d be doing it alone—without her support. From there, she moved on to guilt trips, and when those didn’t work, she stopped just short of threatening to disown me if I left. Since my first year at Julliard, she’s refused to hear anything about my classes, my friends, my productions… hell, anything having to do with my life in the city. 

She doesn’t get to play the victim now. She’s the one who built this wall between us. Never in a million years would I have wanted the relationship with my only living parent to be this way, but she’s who ultimately drew the line in the sand. 

And yet, despite everything, that small, infuriating voice in the back of my head that’s driven by an inherent need to please her demands I apologize. It’s instinctive, ingrained in me from years of trying to earn her approval.

So, I do. 

“I’m sorry about last night,” I say, forcing the words out even as they stick in my throat. Emotionally exhausted, I realize I don’t have it in me to keep hiding the truth. Not entirely.

 “Something happened in New York,” I admit, my voice wavering with the strain of vulnerability. “And you’re right–I’m not ready to talk about it. But I promise you, I’m not in danger. Not right now, anyway.” My eyes drop to the floor, unable to meet hers as I continue. “I’m just… my mind is still trying to make sense of everything that happened. And coming back here, getting used to this place again—it’s been harder than I expected.” 

When I see her mouth open, no doubt to object, I rush to add the words I hope will stop her from pushing further.

“I’ll get help for my anxiety, okay? I’ll call Dr. Benton tomorrow and make an appointment. I swear.” My voice cracks slightly, and I press my hands into my lap, clutching the fabric of my uniform like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded. “But please—please don’t take me off the schedule. The diner… it’s my only distraction right now. The only thing keeping me sane.”

I glance up briefly, willing her to understand, hoping my words are enough to ease whatever concerns are churning behind her stern expression. To my relief, the frown lines etched into her features begin to fade. There’s a shift in her—something tender and unfamiliar. Compassion. Understanding. Things I’d almost forgotten she was capable of showing me. 

“We’re all worried about you,” she says gently. “If you’re in trouble, please tell someone. If not me, then Ben or Lucas, so we can take the necessary precautions.” 

I nod, though deep down, I’m not sure I have the strength to do what she’s asking. “And hey…” Her tone softens further as she stands, moving to sit beside me. She reaches out, resting her hand over mine in a comforting gesture so rare it springs forth a burning sting behind my eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with asking for help, sweetheart. I know I’ve messed things up between us, especially since your dad died. But I promise you, you’re my number one concern. Nothing else in this world matters to me if you’re not safe.”

Her words hit me with an intensity I wasn’t expecting. A flood of emotions surges through me—relief, hope, guilt… a flicker of doubt. Unable to speak, I nod and force a sad smile. I’m torn between wanting to believe her and bracing for the disappointment that always seems to follow. 

With a final, reassuring squeeze of my hand, she rises, smoothing her hands down her apron as though to steady herself. “I’ll be here until close tonight. If at any point you’re overwhelmed and want to head home, feel free. Do whatever you need to do to feel safe, and I’ll support you.”

Her words linger long after she’s gone, like a fragile truce offered in the aftermath of a long-fought battle. For the first time in years, I feel the faintest glimmer of something akin to hope. Maybe, just maybe, our relationship isn’t as irreparably broken as I thought.

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