She kept her promise.
The next morning, my mother knocked on my door at nine, already dressed, already smiling, keys in her hand.
"Get ready. We're going into town."
Town turned out to be a village about twenty minutes from the estate. Cobblestone streets. Old brick buildings. Shops with hand-painted signs and windows full of things nobody actually needed but everyone wanted to look at. It was the kind of place that existed on postcards, pretty and small and completely foreign to everything I knew.
My mother parked the car Richard had lent her—something sleek and German that she kept apologizing to every time she stalled it—and we walked.
For a while, it was good.
She looped her arm through mine like she used to when I was younger, back when it was just the two of us navigating grocery stores and laundromats and the endless maze of our too-small apartment. She pointed at things in shop windows. Pulled me into a boutique that smelled like lavender and made me try on a scarf I didn't need. Laughed when I wrapped it around my head like a babushka and posed in the mirror.
"You're ridiculous," she said, but she was smiling, really smiling, and for a moment I forgot that everything had changed.
We found a café tucked between a bookshop and a florist. The kind of place with mismatched chairs and chalkboard menus and a bell that jingled when you opened the door. She ordered tea because she was trying to be British about things. I ordered hot chocolate because I wasn't.
"So," she said once we were settled at a table near the window. "How are you really doing?"
"I'm fine."
"Ivy."
"I am."
She studied me the way she used to when I was a kid and trying to hide a fever so I wouldn't miss school. Like she could see through my skin to whatever was underneath.
"It's a lot," she said. "I know that. New country, new house, new people. And I've been so caught up in everything with Richard that I feel like I've barely seen you."
"You've been busy."
"That's not an excuse."
Her phone buzzed on the table. She glanced at it. Richard's name on the screen.
"You can answer it," I said.
"No, this is our time." She turned the phone face down. "He can wait."
But she kept glancing at it. I could see her fingers twitching, wanting to flip it over, wanting to check. And I understood, I did. She was in love. She was happy. She had someone who wanted to talk to her, wanted to know where she was and what she was doing and when she was coming home.
I used to be enough for her. Now I was sharing.
"The house is beautiful," I said, because the silence was starting to feel heavy.
"It is." She wrapped her hands around her teacup. "I still can't believe this is my life. Our life. After everything we went through, all those years of struggling, and now..." She shook her head like she couldn't find the words. "I keep waiting to wake up."
"You deserve it, Mom."
"We deserve it. Both of us." She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "You know that, right? Everything I'm doing, everything that's changing, it's for us. For our future."
I nodded.
"And I'm so proud of you," she continued. "You know that too, don't you? Everything you've accomplished, the grades, the scholarship, getting into a school like Ashworth. You've never given me a single reason to worry about you. Not once. My perfect girl."
Something cracked in my chest.
"I'm not perfect," I said. My voice came out wrong.
"You are to me." She smiled, that soft smile that used to fix everything when I was small. "You've always been my easy one. My strong one. The one thing in my life that I never had to doubt."
I couldn't breathe.
She didn't know. She had no idea what I'd done, what had been done to me, what I'd been carrying alone for two years because I couldn't stand the thought of her looking at me differently. She thought I was perfect. She thought I was strong. She thought she knew me.
She didn't know anything.
"Ivy?" Her smile faded. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"You're crying."
I touched my face. My fingers came away wet. I hadn't even noticed.
"I'm fine," I said, but my voice broke on the word and that was it, the dam cracking, everything I'd been holding back pushing against the walls I'd built.
"Sweetheart." She was out of her chair, coming around the table, pulling me into her arms right there in the middle of the café. "What is it? What's going on?"
I couldn't tell her. I couldn't say the words. If I said them, it would become real again, and I'd have to watch her face change, watch the pride turn to disappointment, watch her realize that her perfect daughter was nothing but a lie.
"It's just a lot," I managed. "The move. Everything changing. I'm just overwhelmed."
She held me tighter. "I know. I know, baby. I'm sorry. I've been so wrapped up in everything that I haven't been there for you the way I should."
That only made it worse. She was apologizing. Taking the blame for something that had nothing to do with her.
"It's not your fault," I said into her shoulder.
"We're going to be okay." She pulled back, holding my face in her hands, wiping the tears with her thumbs. "This is a fresh start for both of us. New place, new people, new everything. Whatever happened before, whatever you're carrying, you can leave it behind. We both can."
She meant it as comfort. She had no idea how much it hurt.
Because I couldn't leave it behind. It followed me everywhere—the looks, the whispers, the feeling of being exposed and raw and worthless. Moving to a new country didn't erase it. New people didn't know, but I knew. I would always know.
"Yeah," I said, because she needed to hear it. "Fresh start."
She smiled, relieved, and kissed my forehead. "That's my girl."
Her phone buzzed again. She glanced at it, then back at me.
"Go ahead," I said. "Answer it."
"Are you sure?"
I nodded. Wiped my face with the back of my hand. Tried to look normal.
She picked up the phone. "Hi, love. Yes, we're in town. No, everything's fine. Ivy and I are just having a moment." She laughed at something he said. "I know, I know. We'll be back soon. Love you too."
She hung up. Looked at me with concern still lingering in her eyes.
"He worries," she said, like she needed to explain.
"It's sweet."
"He really is wonderful, Ivy. Once you get to know him better, you'll see. And Asher too. He's not as cold as he seems. He just takes time to warm up."
This was already getting repetitive.
"Sure," I said.
She didn't notice the flatness in my voice. She was already reaching for her coat, already thinking about getting back, already half-gone even though she was sitting right in front of me.
"Ready to head back?"
"Yeah."
We drove home in comfortable silence. She played music from her phone, some playlist Richard had made her, and hummed along to songs she was just learning.
I watched the English countryside roll past the window and thought about fresh starts and old wounds and the distance between who my mother thought I was and who I actually turned out to be.
When we got back to the house, she squeezed my hand before we got out of the car.
"I love you," she said. "More than anything. You know that, right?"
"I know."
"And I'm here. Whenever you're ready to talk. About anything."
I almost told her. The words were right there, sitting on my tongue, ready to fall out.
But then Richard appeared at the front door, smiling, waiting for her, and she lit up the way she always did when she saw him.
I swallowed the words back down.
"Thanks, Mom. I love you too."
She went to him. I watched her go.
Then I went inside, found my way to the painting room, and closed the door behind me.