Ava's POV
Mom's apartment smells like lemon cleaner and the chicken casserole bubbling in her ancient oven when I arrive for our monthly dinner. The familiar scents should comfort me, but tonight they make my already sensitive stomach lurch slightly.
"Perfect timing," she calls from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Five more minutes and we can eat."
I follow her voice, finding her standing beside the small dining table where a cardboard box sits open, old photographs scattered across the surface like fallen leaves. She's holding one particular photo, her expression soft and distant in a way I've rarely seen.
"What's all this?" I settle into the chair beside her, studying the unfamiliar images. Most are from before I was born—my mother looking impossibly young, her hair longer, her face unlined by the exhaustion that would come later.
"I was cleaning out the closet and found this box behind my winter coats." Her voice is quiet, almost reverent. "I'd forgotten I still had these."
The photograph in her hands shows a young man with dark hair and familiar grey eyes—my eyes. He's laughing at something off-camera, one hand raking through his hair in a gesture that makes my chest tighten with recognition.
I've seen that same movement in my own mirror countless times.
"Is that...?" I can't finish the question, but she nods.
"Your father." She sets the photo down carefully, like it might shatter. "David Chen. I haven't looked at these in years."
Twenty-one years of carefully deflected questions, of "he was a good man who died too young" and "maybe when you're older," and suddenly she's ready to talk. The timing feels significant, though I can't put my finger on why.
"Tell me about him." I reach for the photograph, studying the face I've wondered about my entire life. "Not the sanitized version you've been giving me since I was old enough to ask."
Her smile is sad but not bitter. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything. How you met, what he was like, why you never talk about him." I set the photo down between us. "I'm twenty-one, Mom. I can handle the truth, whatever it is."
She's quiet for so long I think she might retreat into her usual deflections. Then she pulls another photograph from the box—the two of them together, her head on his shoulder, both looking blissfully happy.
"He was my professor at the community college," she says finally. "English literature. Fifteen years older than me, brilliant in a way that made you want to be smarter just by being around him."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Fifteen years. Older man. Professor. The parallels to my own situation make my hands shake slightly as I reach for my water glass.
"He could make even the most reluctant students care about poetry. The way he talked about Neruda and Morrison, like their words were sacred things. I was nineteen and thought I knew everything, but David made me realize how much I still had to learn."
"How did it start?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
"Office hours." She laughs softly. "I was struggling with an essay, and he offered to help. One discussion became two, then three. We'd talk for hours about magical realism and the way love could transform ordinary moments into something extraordinary."
Her fingers trace the edge of the photograph.
"I fell in love with his mind first. The way he could find beauty in the darkest literature, hope in the most tragic stories. But then I started noticing other things—the way his eyes lit up when he talked about something he loved, how gentle his hands were when he handed back papers..."
"It was complicated," I say quietly, understanding more than she realizes.
"Impossible," she corrects. "He could have lost his job. I could have been expelled for inappropriate conduct. My parents threatened to disown me when they found out I was 'throwing my life away on some older man who was taking advantage.'"
The familiar words make my chest ache. How many times have I imagined similar conversations, similar accusations?
"So we met in secret. Coffee shops across town where no one from campus would see us. His friend's apartment when he was out of town. Stolen moments between his classes and my work-study job. Six months of loving him in the shadows."
"That must have been exhausting." The words escape before I can stop them, born from my own experience of hidden love.
"It was." Her eyes sharpen slightly, focusing on me with maternal instinct. "But also exhilarating. There's something about forbidden love that makes every touch feel electric, every moment together precious because you know it could be taken away."
I nod, not trusting my voice to remain steady.
"We planned to go public after I graduated," she’s pulling out another photo—this one showing a simple gold ring nestled in a velvet box. "He bought this three months before graduation. Said he was tired of hiding, tired of pretending I didn't mean everything."
"What happened?" Though I already know the ending will be tragic.
"Drunk driver. Three weeks before my graduation ceremony." Her voice doesn't waver, but I see her hands clench slightly. "David was driving to see me when it happened. The other driver walked away without a scratch."
The silence stretches between us, heavy with old grief and newer understanding.
"I was twenty and pregnant," she continues quietly. "Suddenly alone with no family support and a baby on the way. Everyone expected me to be ashamed, to see the pregnancy as punishment for my poor choices."
"But you weren't." I know my mother well enough to recognize the steel in her voice.
"Never." The word is fierce, protective. "David saw me, Ava. Not just the pretty young student, but my mind, my dreams, my soul. He loved me for who I was and who I could become. The six months we had together were worth more than a lifetime."
The parallels are so stark I feel like she's describing my own life. The age gap. The secrecy. The professional impropriety. The pregnancy. The way Tobias sees all of me, not just the young intern but the woman with ambitions and intelligence and desires.
"Mom," I start, his name on my tongue, the confession burning in my throat.
But then I see the pain still lingering in her eyes after twenty-one years, the way she carefully returns each photograph to the box like they're too precious and too painful to look at for long.
"I'm glad you told me," I say instead, swallowing the truth that wants to spill out. "I'm glad you had that love, even briefly."
"So am I, baby. So am I."
The timer rings, breaking the spell, and we move to the kitchen for dinner. But my mind is reeling with realizations I'm not ready to examine.
Driving home through empty streets, I can't escape the weight of what my mother shared. Not just the story, but the certainty in her voice when she said it was worth it.
When did this stop being just an arrangement for me? When did managing an unexpected pregnancy become wanting Sunday mornings in his bed and campaign stages where I stand beside him proudly?
When did I start imagining family photographs and shared dinners and all the impossible things I can never have?
Somewhere between that first bathroom encounter and tonight's desperate release in his study, I've fallen completely, devastatingly in love with Tobias Murphy.
Not just attracted to him. Not just grateful for his protection and care. In love with him in a way that makes me want to scream it from rooftops, to hell with the consequences.
But what if I'm alone in these feelings? What if his tenderness is just responsibility, his possessiveness just about protecting the baby? What if every sweet word and protective gesture is duty rather than desire?
The thought of asking him directly, of seeing pity or obligation in his eyes instead of love, keeps my confession locked away.
But the want is consuming me whole, and I don't know how much longer I can pretend otherwise.