Chapter 4 - The Shadow of the Mother
We arrived in New York under a blanket of grey clouds,
the city humming with a restless energy that matched my own.
The apartment was a sanctuary of glass and steel,
overlooking Central Park.
But even here,
the ghosts of Beverly Hills followed us.
My phone was a constant buzz of voicemails from my mother.
"Daniel,
how could you be so cruel?"
"We are family,
we made mistakes,
but you cannot throw us to the wolves!"
"I am your mother!
I gave you life!"
I listened to them in the middle of the night,
standing on the balcony as the city lights twinkled below.
She wasn't apologizing.
She was still trying to manipulate me,
still trying to use the bond of motherhood as a weapon.
Emily was sleeping in the other room,
her rest fitful and plagued by nightmares.
I had hired a private therapist to come to the apartment,
a woman who specialized in trauma and domestic abuse.
"She’s in a state of hyper-vigilance,"
the therapist had told me.
"She expects to be punished for every small mistake."
"She asks for permission to eat,"
"She asks for permission to use the bathroom."
"It will take time,
Daniel."
I wanted to tear the city apart.
I wanted to go back to California and burn everything that bore the Voss name.
Instead,
I focused on the legal war.
Marcus had served the papers.
The accounts were frozen.
The boutique Ashley had opened was being seized by the court.
The Florida properties were under a lien.
And Michael had been arrested in a casino for trying to use a credit card that had been reported stolen.
I felt no joy in their downfall.
Only a grim sense of justice.
One afternoon,
Emily came out to the living room while I was on a conference call.
She was wearing a soft cashmere sweater I had bought her,
her hair washed and shining.
She stood by the window,
watching the people in the park below.
"I forgot what it was like,"
she said softly.
"What?"
I asked,
hanging up the phone.
"To just be,"
she replied.
"To not have to worry about the tone of my voice,"
"To not have to worry about the grease on the pan."
I walked over to her,
taking her hand.
"You never have to worry again,
Emily."
"But I do,"
she said,
turning to me.
"I worry that you’ll look at me and only see a victim."
"I worry that you’ll look at me and remember me scrubbing those pots."
"No,"
I said,
lifting her chin so she had to look into my eyes.
"When I look at you,
I see the strongest woman I’ve ever known."
"I see the woman who survived a war I didn't even know was happening."
She leaned into me,
and for the first time,
she didn't pull away when I touched her.
May you like
It was a small victory,
but it was everything.
