Chapter 5

I didn't say much.

This kind of room wasn't the place to lay out your wounds in detail. It would come across as performing grief for an audience, and that wasn't why I was up there.

So I kept it light. A few sentences that floated easily over the crowd — and landed like stones on the only person who mattered.

But I didn't let her off entirely.

At the end of my remarks, I paused, looked out over the hall, and added one final line.

"Earlier this evening, a woman told the room I'd stolen her necklace. Her daughter slapped me across the face without asking a single question."

"I'll leave it to you to decide what that says about the caliber of students at this institution."

A silence fell over the room.

When I came off the stage, James Whitmore was waiting with Sofia beside him. Vivian stood a little apart, both hands twisted into her skirt.

He pulled Sofia forward and made her apologize.

That's the real world. It respects strength, not sentiment.

I'd never wasted energy hoping my mother would turn around and notice me on her own. I'd understood early on that if I became powerful enough, she'd come to me eventually. She always would.

"Stella, that was a remarkable speech," James said smoothly, falling into step beside me with his champagne raised. "I've told Sofia more than once she could learn a thing or two from you."

"Has she?"

"What do you say to a leave of absence?" I kept my smile pleasant. "Six months at home, learning to respect people, before she goes back to her studies."

I let my gaze rest on the three of them — such a perfect, happy little family — and then moved on without waiting for an answer.

I was almost at the door when I heard her running after me.

"Stella. Stella, wait."

I stopped.

"My name embarrasses you that much?" I asked, not turning around.

Gran had told me once that she'd chosen my name herself. She'd loved the old English word for star — Stella — clear and bright. She'd wanted me to shine.

All those years, I'd written my name as carefully as I could, in every notebook and every form I ever filled out. Practicing. Hoping that one day she'd see it and say it out loud.

She was red-eyed now, her expression strained.

"Can you — can you speak to James? Ask him not to go through with the suspension. I — " she hesitated. "I had no idea you'd become this accomplished. But if you said a word to him, he'd listen."

"Sofia's almost through her degree. She can't afford to lose the credits. Please."

"I know I owe you an apology. I know I haven't been there. But I had my reasons, Stella. You have to believe that."

She was asking. But her tone had something else underneath — an assumption. As if this was simply what I should do, because she was asking.

I looked at her quietly.

"What reasons?" I said.

I straightened my back and met her eyes directly.

"Tell me. What reason is worth sixteen years of silence? What reason justifies pretending to be the devoted mother — sending me Sofia's old things, letting me believe you were going without so I could have them?"

"You bought Sofia a piano. A car. And you sent me her secondhand leftovers."

"You took her to summer camp. You were there for every milestone of her life. But you couldn't even pick up the phone on the day I got my university offer."

"Where were you when I was crying? Where were you when I had a fever? Where were you when someone was hurting me? Where were you when I needed you to be proud of me?"

"You weren't there. You were never there."

"Because I'm not your daughter, am I? I'm just the one you threw away."

I'd told myself I'd moved past it.

But standing in front of her, I realized I remembered everything. Every single thing. Every humiliation, every fever, every night I'd woken up calling for her in the dark. It was all still there, perfectly preserved, like pages in an invisible diary she'd never been meant to read.

Her mascara was running. She shook her head, unable to speak.

I'd lost the appetite to keep watching.

She called after me as I walked away. I didn't turn back.

Outside the gala hall, the night air came at me cool and sharp.

I stood on the lawn and looked up at the moon.

It was full, and very bright.

When I was small, I used to believe there was something magical living in the moon — some force that could find people for you, bring them back. I used to talk to it on clear nights and ask it to show my mother the way home.

I knew better now. The moon was just a moon.

Everything that had carried me to this point had been mine alone.