**Chapter 65: Heart to Heart** “Ava, can we please talk?” My mother’s voice trembles with desperation, halting my movement as I turn to leave. I fix my gaze on her, puzzled by her request. Was there really more to discuss? Wasn’t everything already said and done, the words echoing painfully in the corridors of our shared history? “There isn’t anything for us to talk about, Mother,” I assert firmly, the weight of my conviction solid. In that moment, a realization washes over me: the stark contrast in how I regard my parents. While Emma and Travis lovingly utter “Mom” and “Dad,” I remain detached, addressing them as Father and Mother—clinical, dispassionate, void of warmth. Deep down, I never truly acknowledged them as my parents. Because what kind of parents hate their children? What kind of parents neglect and mistreat those they’ve brought into the world? The titles I used were nothing but a shield, a barrier because on a spiritual level, I couldn’t accept them as my own. “Please, I beg you,” she implores, tears welling in her eyes like fragile raindrops, threatening to spill over. It feels surreal to witness this emotional fragility in her. The softness and flush of her face are alien to me. I’ve always known her as a woman cast in an unfaltering frown, her gaze cold and indifferent—a targeted disdain that made me feel as if I were an imposter in my own life. “How about you show me to our table while they talk?” Martha, Rowan's mother, interjects, cutting through the tension like a knife through velvet. Corrine’s expression reflects uncertainty—she hesitates, torn between her loyalty to me and the expectations placed upon her by her family, who’ve never concealed their contempt for my existence, despite my supposed role as their daughter. But Martha takes matters into her own hands, linking her arm with Corrine’s and leading her away, leaving only silence behind. I exhale a heavy sigh as I sink into my seat, confronting the impending confrontation. “Let’s get this over with. You won’t leave me alone until you’ve had your say, so go on, speak your piece—before I change my mind,” I say, my tone icy and unyielding. Once upon a time, in the innocent years of my youth, I had treasured this woman. In my memories, she was a beacon of love when I was around five or six. But that glow faded fast, replaced by the realization that her heart held no warmth for me. Instead of nurturing me, she treated me like a burden—an obstacle in her life that required pushing away. Hesitantly, she takes her seat and reaches for my hands. I recoil instinctively, pulling away from her touch. I don’t want her near me. A part of me had endlessly longed for moments like this, yet now, as I linger in the dismal present, there is nothing but emptiness coursing through me. “I’m sorry, Ava. More than you’ll ever know,” she whispers, her voice a fragile wisp caught in the vastness of my indifference. I remain silent, consumed by thoughts that clash like thunder in my mind. I had envisioned this moment countless times, each daydream tinged with hope—her apologizing, enveloping me in her arms, injecting warmth into the chill that had long settled in my heart. Yet, in reality, that joy is conspicuously absent. My gaze remains fixed on her, devoid of any sentiment. “The way I treated you was wrong. You were just a child, and instead of embracing you, I pushed you away. You loved me, loved us, but we offered you nothing but scorn. More than anything, I wish I could go back in time and change everything—be the mother you truly deserved,” she continues, her voice quaking with emotion. Tears cascade down her cheeks, but they fail to stir any compassion within me. If I were still the girl who had once adored her, those tears might have cracked the stern façade I wore. Yet, years of suffering—over twenty-five—cannot simply be whisked away by a few delicate drops. It would take divine intervention to efface the scars her negligence carved into my spirit. “Let’s skip the theatrics, okay? If this is about the threat my mother made regarding your precious company, we can discuss it like adults. No need to sweeten me up with empty apologies. Just tell me the real reason you wanted to talk,” I respond, my tone flat and devoid of warmth. Surprise flickers across her face, a hurt that barely registers on my emotional scale. After years of her cruelty, this moment seems trivial in comparison to the scars I've borne under her disregard. “It hurts that you would think so little of me. That you believe the only reason I’m here is to salvage the company,” she states, a hint of sorrow slicing through her words. “But I have no one to blame but myself. My actions have robbed you of any trust in me.” Looking at her now, it’s hard to reconcile the woman seated before me with the one who once roared at me for the slightest misstep, who treated my existence with a dismissiveness I learned to navigate like the rough tides of an unforgiving sea. This exchange is alien; we’ve never had a heart-to-heart before, and her emotional outpouring makes me feel both unsettled and distant. “I truly want your forgiveness. I want to be your mother in every sense. I want to mend what I shattered. I want to reclaim the love I so carelessly threw away.” I let out a long, laborious sigh. “I don’t want to be cruel, but for clarity, you’re not my mother. The DNA test I have at home could prove that. Additionally, any hope of a close relationship between us sailed long ago. I’d prefer if you and your children continued pretending I didn’t exist. You’ve done so for nearly three decades; it shouldn’t be a burden to carry on.” Some might label me ungrateful, and perhaps there is a grain of truth in that assessment. Material gifts are all they’ve offered me. But the emotional desolation that consumed my childhood leaves me wanting for more than trinkets; it craves love, validation—the warmth of belonging. “Please don’t say that. Don’t say it’s too late,” her voice rises, soft yet urgent, pulling me back into this fraught present. “But it’s the truth. You’re over twenty-five years too late,” I shoot back, the words heavy with the weight of my sentiments. She wipes her tears, determination etched into her features. “I won’t give up on you, Ava. You’re still my daughter, and I’ll do anything to earn back your love.” A weary breath escapes my lips as I instinctively massage my temples, the pressure within my mind escalating like a brewing storm. I say nothing as she stands, nor do I raise my gaze. She can live in her delusion for all I care; nothing will shift the indifference I feel toward her. The love I once held dear has been extinguished, and I can see no path toward rekindling that flame. “Before I leave, I wanted to give you this. Your father told me to pass it along before he died, but I never had the chance,” she announces coldly, offering one final piece of her soul. I don’t respond, choosing instead to remain in my cocoon of silence. She sighs, resignation seeping into her voice as she sets something down on the table before me. Once she walks away, I finally dare to look at what she left behind, my pulse quickening as I absorb the sight of an unassuming piece of paper, smeared with bloody fingerprints. It takes a long five minutes for realization to strike—a jolt that cascades through me like a wildfire. This is the very document I had seen my father handing over to her mere moments before he was wheeled away for surgery.