I wasn’t that angry that Mia had told my mother the truth. There was no way to know what the context of the situation was. But I was livid that Mia didn’t give me the decency of a warning. After everything I’d done for her, it seemed cold.
“I went into Mia’s room one night to check on her. Her back was turned to me, and she was changing. That’s when I saw the scars on her back…”
I held my mother’s gaze, seeing the picture she wove in my mind.
“Carter, I’ve seen scars like that before. I know how they got there. I know how much force it would take to leave scars so deep and painful. They marred her back so severely that it’s obvious they were created over an extended period of time.”
The pain welled up inside my chest when I realized where this conversation was going. “It wasn’t me. I would never do something like that—”
“I know that, Carter.” She raised her hand to silence me. “The thought never crossed my mind.”
I shut my mouth, relieved that my mother didn’t think I was a monster.
“But I put the pieces together and realized Mia isn’t just some woman you hired to clean up after you. You’ve never been the kind of person to have help around the house, and Mia is so young to be in that line of work. Coupled with the scars and her timid behavior, I knew there was more to the story. So I asked her about her scars…and she didn’t give me an answer. So I told her my story first…”
Her story first? What story did my mother have to tell? A blank expression must have come over my face because my mother sighed and looked away. “I don’t understand…”
“I wasn’t sure when I was going to share this story with you. I wanted to wait until you were older, but you’re nearly thirty years old…so you’ve been an adult for a long time. It’ll be hard to hear, even harder to process. But since you’ve helped Mia, an innocent woman who deserves a better life, I think it’s time.”
So Mia did tell her. And now my mother was going to share another story with me.
“I was in my early twenties when I was captured. I was with a friend at the time, and we were both enslaved by the same master…” She kept looking at the table, unable to meet my gaze.
The second she began her story, the surface of my eyes coated with moisture, and I couldn’t blink it away. I’d never been an emotional man. I was like my father, hardly capable of feeling anything real. But I had a soft spot for my family, particularly my mother. She was so strong and so loving. She didn’t deserve anything bad ever to happen to her.
“The details of the imprisonment don’t matter,” she continued, raising her gaze to meet mine. “But Mia and I aren’t so different. We’ve experienced the same kind of torture. I was better off than she was because my enslavement didn’t last nearly as long. Your father saved me. He killed the man who held me captive. And he gave me a wonderful life.”
Even though I was exposed to this kind of cruelty all the time, hearing my mother speak of it on such a personal level made me ache all over. I should have said something in response to the tale, but I simply couldn’t. My mother had been raped and tortured, and my first response was to kill the man responsible for it…but my father already took care of that. I sat in silence, speechless at the revelation and deathly heartbroken over it.
My mother watched me for a long time, practically holding her breath as she waited for me to say something.
But I couldn’t. I was too broken.
Mom continued. “Mia told me that you took her away from her master and gave her a new life. She told me how kind and compassionate you are. She told me this not to betray you, but because I pressured her for her story. And Carter…I’m so proud of you. It brings tears to my eyes to think of what you did for this woman. Most men are cruel, but you’re good just like your father. Without you, where would this woman be? How would her son be without her? You’re a hero, son. I don’t care if you risked your family to get her out of that situation. You did the right thing…and I’m so lucky to have you as my son.”
My mother had just praised me, the kind of thing I lived for. All I wanted was for my parents to be proud of me, to know raising me had been worth all the time and frustration. But now those compliments meant nothing to me because of everything she’d said before that. “Mama…I’m so sorry.” Without even realizing it, tears sprang into my eyes. I felt them glide down my cheeks toward my chin. My chest hurt so much, like I was having a heart attack. “I’m so sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say, how else to express the way I felt. Knowing someone hurt my mother like that brought me so much pain I didn’t know how to absorb the agonizing truth.