Unforgivable by Amy Reed Page A

chocolate croissant.”
    Mom pulls bills out of her wallet and shoves them at me. “Is this enough? I have more if you need it. Get anything you want.”
    I take the money. I want to tell her to stop trying so hard. No amount of money is going to make me forgive her.
    When I get back, Mom is deep in thought. “So?” I say with my mouth full of croissant, savoring the more familiar flavors of butter and sugar.
    â€œI’m so happy you changed your mind and agreed to talk to me,” she says. She is looking down at her coffee. Her fingers cross and uncross.
    â€œEveryone deserves a second chance, right?” Did that really come out of my mouth?
    Mom looks up at me, her eyes wet with the beginning of tears, and I feel a dull surge of anger. She has no right to be sad. She’s the one who fucked up. If anyone should be sad, it’s me.
    â€œGod, I can’t start crying already,” she says, wiping her eyes. “I haven’t even started yet. My sponsor thinks it’s too soon, but I need to do this.” She takes a deep breath, and I prepare myself for whatever’s about to come. “There’s a lot I need to tell you,” she begins. “To make amends. I don’t expect you to ever forgive me for leaving. But I want you to understand. Regardless of how you feel about me, I hope at least you won’t have this weighing on your heart.”
    â€œDid you rehearse this?” I say.
    She laughs. “Yeah. Like a million times.”
    â€œI can tell.”
    â€œThat bad?”
    I shrug. Honestly, I’d say the fact that I’m still sitting here listening to her means she’s doing pretty well. But I’m not going to tell her that.
    â€œFirst of all,” she continues, “I need you to know that I never wanted to leave you, Marcus. I was leaving your father. I was leaving a version of myself that I hated.”
    â€œBut I was collateral damage?” I say. The old, dull anger weighing in my chest turns a little sharper.
    â€œI guess you could say that.”
    â€œWhat about David? Were you leaving him?” It seems so strange saying his name out loud in front of her—illicit, forbidden—as if naming him will unleash some sort of dark magic.
    She looks away, takes a sip of her coffee. “In some ways, yes,” she finally says, her voice surprisingly strong. “I guess you could say that. Our relationship wasn’t healthy.”
    â€œYou don’t have to tell me that.”
    â€œI was suffocating. I was extremely depressed, suicidal even, and I was very much an alcoholic. Am an alcoholic. I’ve been sober nine months now, but it’s a disease I will always have. That’s part of why I’m here, making these amends. It’s part of my recovery.”
    â€œHow nice for you.”
    She flinches. “I’m trying to make things right. I’ll do anything to make things right.”
    â€œSo you think taking me out for coffee and apologizing is going to make things right?” I can feel my anger boiling, rising in my throat. Cruel words burn in my mouth.
    â€œOf course not. But it’s a start. It’s the first step in healing.”
    â€œStep, huh? Is that an AA thing? So what’s the next step?”
    I wait for her answer while she takes another deep breath. “I’m thinking of moving back,” she says. “I want to go back to school to get my master’s in social work.”
    â€œYou can’t do that in Seattle?”
    â€œI was hoping I could be part of your life again. In this year before you go off to college.”
    I taste the bitter green of the smoothie in my throat. “Maybe it’s too late for that.” My voice is acid, sharp, burning.
    I can tell she’s using all her strength to not cry, to not make a scene. Such a change from the mother I remember, whose feelings were always so careless and out of control, bursting out of her and