I wasn’t surprised. My father would never willingly admit someone got the better of him.
Dante and I dropped our luggage in our rooms upstairs before rejoining Agnes in the living room. Gunnar was in session in Parliament, so it really was a Lau family weekend.
I paused when I saw my mother sitting on the couch next to my sister. At first glance, she looked as put together as ever, but a closer examination revealed the lines of tension bracketing her mouth and the faint purple smudges beneath her eyes.
A pang hit my chest.
Her eyes brightened, and she rose halfway at my entrance before sitting back down. It was an unusually awkward move for Cecelia Lau, one that made my heart squeeze.
Agnes’s gaze ping ponged between us.
“Dante, why don’t I give you a tour of the house?” she said. “The layout can be confusing…”
He glanced at me. I gave him a small nod.
“I’d love a tour,” he said.
My mother stood fully when they left the room. “Vivian. It’s good to see you.”
“You too, Mother.”
And then I was engulfed in her arms, my eyes stinging when I breathed in the familiar scent of her perfume.
We weren’t big on physical affection in our household. The last time we’d hugged had been when I was nine, but this felt like a much-needed embrace for both of us.
“I wasn’t sure you would show,” she said when she released me. We took our seats on the couch. “Have you lost weight? You look skinnier. You need to eat more.”
I was either eating too much or too little. There was no in between.
“I haven’t had much of an appetite,” I said. “Stress. Things have been…chaotic.”
“Yes.” She took a deep breath and ran a hand over her pearls. “What a huge mess this is. I’ve never been so angry with your father.Imagine, doingthatto Dante Russo, of all people…”
I cut her off with the question that’d been plaguing me since I overheard Dante’s conversation with my father. “Did you know about the blackmail?”
Her mouth parted. “Ofcoursenot.” She sounded appalled. “How could you think that? Blackmail is beneath us, Vivian.”
“You’ve always gone along with what Father does. I just assumed…”
“Not always.” My mother’s face darkened. “I don’t agree with him trying to disown you. You’reourdaughter. He doesn’t get to decide whether or not I can see you or single-handedly kick you out of the family. I told him as such.”
A ball of emotion tangled in my throat at the unexpected development. My mother had never stood up for me before.
“Is he here?”
“He’s upstairs, sulking.” A frown pinched her brow. “Speaking of which, you should go to your room and change before dinner. A T-shirt and yoga pants? In public? I hope no one important saw you at the airport.”
Just like that, the warmth from her earlier words disappeared. “You always do that.”
“Do what?” She looked bewildered.
“Criticize everything I do or wear.”
“I wasn’t criticizing, Vivian, merely making a suggestion. Do you think it’s appropriate to wear yoga pants to dinner?”
It was amazing how fast she switched from indignant and concerned to critical.
My father was responsible for most of my family problems, but a different type of frustration had simmered toward my mother for years.