18+ | Eva French relocates from sunny Florida to the gritty streets of Detroit, seeking a fresh start. But her new beginning takes a dark turn when she experiences a traumatic assault on her very first night in the city. Haunted by the incident, Eva...
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Eva French
When I returned home, I had opened the door and come face to face with my mom. In that moment, she was the last person I wanted to see. She opened her mouth, most likely to lecture me for being out and about so late, but fell silent when I stepped forward and hugged her. Slowly, I felt her arms envelop me, her hands rubbing at my back soothingly.
I sobbed without reservation, burying my face into the familiar crook of her neck. My mom may have looked different recently, with her greying hair and the perpetual solemn expression that had worn down her face. But her scent remained unchanged, a comforting reminder of home. And her hug was still the same, still offering the solace it always had. I felt like a child again in her arms.
"What's wrong, honey?" she asked, concern etched in every line of her face. I hesitated, reluctant to burden her with my troubles. But her unwavering support encouraged me to speak.
"It's everything, Mom," I confessed, my voice wavering with emotion. "I don't even know where to start."
As she held me at arm's length to study my face, I tried to quell my tears as to not worry her further. "Is this about the boy?" she inquired, her frown deepening. "The one who walks you home?"
Mom's just always know, don't they? There was no point denying it. I nodded my head, stifling a sob, beginning to cry again.
"Oh, honey," she said, her voice soft with concern, as she pulled me back into a comforting embrace. "Come on, let's sit down," she suggested gently, leading me over to sofa. I followed obediently, feeling a sense of relief wash over me at her comforting presence. I always thought she'd be angry to know that the tears I cried were over a boy. She was so strong—I thought she wouldn't understand and be sorely disappointed to see that I let a man break me down to this point. But as she sat beside me, her arm around my shoulder, I realized that she must have gone through something similar with my Dad.
This thought made me cry even harder.
"Sweetie, listen to me," she cooed reassuringly, brushing away my baby hair that was wet with tears and sweat away from my face, "It's okay to feel hurt and confused. But you're strong, stronger than you know. And you don't have to go through this alone. I'm here for you, always."
"I love him, Mom," I lamented through my sobs, aware I was acting childish now, but I could not help it. I was clinging on to this fleeting moment of comfort with her, taking advantage of the maternal love and care that I had yearned for during the past year. "I don't know what to do, I feel so confused."
"Oh sweetheart, I understand," she murmured, her voice gentle and reassuring. "Love can be complicated, especially at your age. You don't have to have all the answers now, honey. You're only twenty-one, sweetie, what's the rush? Why are you so upset, did you two get in a fight?"
