Chapter 98
“Diane,” he breathed, relief washing over his features. “How is she? How’s your mother?”
Before I could answer, Dr. Chen approached from behind me. “Mr. Andrew, so good to see you again.”
Andrew nodded distractedly, his eyes never leaving my face. “Helena? Is she…?”
“She had a heart attack,” I said, my voice steadier than I expected. “They say it was brought on by stress. She’s stable now.”
His face crumpled, decades of regret etching deeper lines around his eyes. “This is my fault. All of it.”
“Let’s not assign blame right now,” Dr. Chen interjected diplomatically. “What matters is that Helena rests and recovers. We’ll be discharging her tomorrow hopefully, but she’ll need to avoid stress and take it easy for a while.”
Andrew nodded, composing himself with visible effort. “Of course. Whatever she needs.”
The three of us walked together toward my mother’s room, an awkward silence hanging between us.
His hands trembled slightly at his sides, betraying his anxiety. This man who had abandoned us when I was three had maintained enough feeling for my mother that the thought of her ill in a hospital bed clearly devastated him. It was… confusing.
As we approached the door to my mother’s room, Andrew hesitated, turning to me with uncertainty in his eyes. “Should I… would it upset her to see me?”
The vulnerability in his question caught me off guard. This powerful man who had swept back into our lives, who had manipulated circumstances to get close to me, suddenly seemed lost and afraid, afraid of hurting the woman he had already hurt so deeply once before.
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly.
He nodded, squaring his shoulders as if preparing for battle, and followed me into the room.
My mother’s eyes were closed when we entered, but they fluttered open at the sound of the door. Joan sat beside the bed, looking up as we approached. The moment my mother’s gaze fell on Andrew, tears began to roll down her cheeks.
Andrew froze, the sight of her tears clearly devastating him. Then, without hesitation, he moved to her bedside, kneeling beside the bed with a grace surprising for a man his age.
“My love,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”
The naked emotion in his voice startled me. This wasn’t the calculated, confident businessman who had orchestrated his way back into our lives. This was a man stripped bare, his defenses crumbled in the face of nearly losing someone precious to him.
“I know I’ve not been a great husband and a great father to you and our daughters,” he continued, taking her hand in both of his, pressing it to his lips. “And I hope that you forgive me, please. Let me make up for whatever hurt and pain I’ve caused you over the years.”
My mother’s tears flowed faster, but something in her expression had softened, the wall of resentment showing its first cracks.
“I want to be your loving husband again,” Andrew pleaded, his own eyes wet with tears. “The man that you’d lean on and share all your problems with. Please, my love, be my honey pie again.”
The term of endearment—so intimate, so personal—made me realize I was witnessing something private, a moment between two people with a history I couldn’t fully comprehend.
“If it means marrying you again to prove myself,” he continued, “I’d do that. In front of everyone. I’d shout it from the rooftops that I love you, that I never stopped loving you, even when I was too weak and ashamed to face you.”
My mother reached up a trembling hand, gesturing for him to come closer. He leaned in, and she placed her palm against his cheek, wiping away a tear with her thumb.
“Silly you,” she whispered, her voice weak but warm with affection. “I’ve forgiven you a long time ago. I’ve missed you a lot, my love.”
Andrew’s face crumpled, years of guilt and regret pouring out in silent tears as he pressed his forehead to their joined hands. The raw vulnerability of the moment struck me deeply. This man—this flawed, complicated man—had once been a loving husband and father before his addiction tore our family apart.
I found myself moving closer, drawn by their shared pain and the flickering hope of healing. Without conscious decision, I placed my hand on my father’s shoulder. He looked up, surprise and gratitude mingling in his tear-filled eyes.
My mother reached for me with her free hand, and suddenly we were all connected—father, mother, daughter, and the unborn grandchildren nestled beneath my heart. We cried together, years of hurt and misunderstanding flowing out with our tears.
Even Dr. Chen, standing respectfully by the door, wiped at her eyes, while Joan dabbed at her cheeks with a tissue.
As our tears subsided, Andrew pulled back slightly, though he kept hold of my mother’s hand. “I’ve asked Sophie to come,” he said quietly. “I told her you were ill.”
The fragile moment shattered. I stiffened, pulling my hand away from the family circle. “You did what?”
Andrew’s expression was pleading. “She’s your sister, Diane. She deserves to know about your mother.”
“After what she did—” I began, anger rising like bile in my throat.
“Please,” my mother interrupted weakly. “Not now. No fighting. The doctor said… no stress.”
I bit back the angry words that threatened to spill out, nodding tersely instead. “Fine. But I won’t be here when she arrives.”
As if summoned by our conversation, the door opened, and Sophie stood there, her face pale with worry, eyes widening as they took in the tableau before her—our mother in the hospital bed, Andrew kneeling beside her, the two of them holding hands like long-lost lovers reunited.
I stood abruptly, the sudden movement sending a wave of dizziness through me. Without a word to Sophie, I brushed past her, ignoring my parents’ calls to come back. I couldn’t be in the same room with her, couldn’t bear to see her face, to hear her voice, to remember her betrayal all over again.
In the hallway, I leaned against the wall, one hand supporting my lower back, the other cradling my belly as one of the twins kicked vigorously against my palm. The movement grounded me, reminding me of what was truly important.
Dr. Chen’s words echoed in my mind. I needed to avoid stress for the sake of my babies. But how could I do that when stress seemed to find me at every turn? When every relationship in my life had been built on lies and betrayal?
A nurse approached, concern in her eyes. “Mrs. Ashton? Are you alright?”
I nodded automatically, though I was far from alright. “Just needed some air.”
“Would you like to sit down? There’s a quiet waiting area just down the hall.”
The kindness in her voice nearly undid me again. I followed her to a small, private waiting room with comfortable chairs and a window overlooking a garden. Sinking into one of the chairs, I thanked her as she left, promising to check on me soon.
Alone at last, I closed my eyes, trying to process everything I’d witnessed. The tenderness between my parents had been genuine—I couldn’t deny that. Andrew’s remorse, his love for my mother, seemed real and deep. Not the calculated manipulation I’d accused him of, but the desperate regret of a man who knew exactly what he’d thrown away and would do anything to get it back.
Had I been wrong about him? The thought was uncomfortable, challenging the narrative I’d constructed to make sense of his reappearance in our lives.
And what about Sophie? The sister I’d loved my entire life until she betrayed me in the worst possible way. My parents clearly wanted reconciliation between us. But how could I forgive such a grave betrayal? How could I ever trust her again?
As I sat there, the twins moved within me, a rolling wave that reminded me of the new life i was carrying. These children would be born into a family fractured by lies and betrayal. But they also had the potential to be born into a family healing from those wounds, stronger for having faced them together.
The question was whether I could be part of that healing. Whether I could find forgiveness not just for my parents’ sake or for Sophie’s, but for my own—and for my children.
I placed both hands on my belly, feeling the strong kicks against my palms. “What do you think, little ones?” I whispered. “Should your mommy learn to forgive?”
One of the twins kicked particularly hard, as if in answer. I couldn’t help but smile through my tears. Perhaps that was all the response I needed.
For now, though, I needed time—time to heal, to think, to decide what kind of mother and daughter and sister I wanted to be. Time to figure out if forgiveness was something I could offer, not just to my family, but to myself as well.
Because in the middle of all this chaos and pain, one truth remained clear: these babies deserved better than the broken legacy of lies and betrayal I’d inherited. They deserved a mother who was whole, who had made peace with her past, who could show them what real love and forgiveness looked like.
And somehow, I needed to become that mother before they arrived—a task that seemed both impossible and absolutely necessary as I sat alone in that quiet hospital waiting room, caught between my past and my future, between anger and forgiveness, between hurt and healing.