Chapter 5: Shattered Keepsakes

I remembered the sting of their words, the way they’d whisper behind our backs. My dad did his best, but the world wasn’t kind to families that didn’t fit the mold. Still, my mom never apologized for who she was. She sent postcards from every corner of the globe, her handwriting looping across the page like a lifeline.

When I was little, I barely saw her. But she sent letters, postmarked from all over, describing her life and including photos. My happiest childhood memory was sitting on my dad’s lap, listening to him read her letters. In my heart, I pictured that bold, high-spirited reporter.

Those letters were my treasure, each one a window into a world bigger than our Ohio neighborhood. I kept them in a shoebox under my bed, rereading them on nights when the loneliness felt too big to bear.

She wrote: Addie, most women’s worlds are small, but the real world is huge. When you grow up, you have to go see it for yourself. Only by seeing more can you know what you want.

Her words became my compass, guiding me through every storm. Even now, they echoed in my mind, pushing me forward when I wanted to give up.

She was my eyes. Before I’d read many books, I glimpsed the world through her. But when I was five, she died in the line of duty—killed for exposing a massacre during the Kosovo War. The paper only recovered her camera. Besides the footage she died to protect, there was a photo of me, taken at some unknown time.

I remembered the day the news came—neighbors gathered on the porch, their faces solemn. My dad held me tight, tears streaming down his face. The camera was all we had left, a relic of a life cut short.

At that age, I didn’t really understand what “killed” meant. But the neighbors who used to gossip at my door sneered, “See? Women who show off never come to a good end!”

Their words haunted me, shaping the way I saw myself. For years, I tried to be smaller, quieter, less like her. But I never stopped missing her.

After that, I lost my mom, but always remembered her advice: Go and see the world for yourself. Only then will you know what you want.

I clung to her memory, her courage. I promised myself I’d live a life big enough for both of us.

…

That afternoon, the oldest, most battered camera I dug out was hers. My head felt hot and dizzy. I buried my face in my hands.

I sat on the floor, clutching the camera to my chest. The grief came in waves, sharp and sudden. I let myself cry, for the first time in years, letting the pain wash over me.

“Mom, I miss you so much…”

The words came out in a whisper, lost in the quiet of the apartment. I wished she could see me now—broken, but still standing.

The next morning, a headache woke me. I opened my eyes, dazed, and realized I was home. I didn’t even know how I’d gotten back last night. I got up and poured a glass of warm water.

The sunlight slanted through the blinds, painting stripes across the living room. I moved through the house like a ghost, every step heavy with regret.

Mason was sitting in the living room, his face dark. “Is this how you act as the lady of the house?”

His voice was cold, clipped. He didn’t look at me, just stared at the wall like he was already somewhere else.

I ignored him and went to the study. But the desk was empty.

Panic flared in my chest. I searched the room, hands shaking. The camera was gone.

I rasped, “Where’s my camera?”

My voice cracked, raw with fear. I prayed he hadn’t done what I thought he had.

“I gave it to Jordan.”

His words hit me like a slap. I spun around, disbelief turning to rage.

I spun around. He crossed his arms and sneered, “Didn’t you tell her to take more pictures?”

He shrugged, as if it were nothing. I saw red.

My brain struggled to process. He’d actually given my mom’s camera to Jordan?

I felt something inside me snap. Years of trying to be good, to be enough, crumbled in an instant.

Suddenly I smashed the glass in my hand, grabbed his collar. “How dare you touch my camera! How dare you!”

The glass shattered, water spilling across the floor. I lunged at him, years of pent-up anger boiling over. He looked shocked, like he’d never seen me before.

Mason was startled. “Where’s Jordan now?”

He tried to pull away, but I held on, desperate.

“Addie! Let go!”

His voice was sharp, but I didn’t care. I needed answers.

“Where is she?!”

I tore at his collar, hysterical. The wine I drank last night poured from my eyes as tears.

The sobs wracked my body, but I refused to let go. I needed that camera back—needed it more than anything.

Mason froze. “…She’s at the Maplewood Grand Hotel.”

His voice was small, almost afraid. I released him, stumbling backward.

“Room number!”

I wiped my face with the back of my hand, breath coming in ragged gasps.

“1103…”

I shoved him aside and rushed out. Drove straight to the hotel, up to the 11th floor, and pounded on the door. “Open up!”

My knuckles stung, but I didn’t stop. I would tear the door off its hinges if I had to.

After a while, Jordan angrily opened up. “Why are you going crazy so early in the morning!”

Her hair was a mess, eyes puffy from sleep. I didn’t care. I pushed past her, scanning the room.

I rushed in. Sure enough, the camera was on the TV stand. I grabbed it to leave, but Jordan stopped me.

She blocked the door, arms crossed. “That’s something Mason gave me! Why should you take it back?”

I turned and slapped her. “It’s mine—why should you have it!”