Chapter 2 I'm sorry, mom

I almost left the skates behind.

That was the first thing in my head when I opened my eyes. The room was still dark. Last night’s fight was still loud in my ears. The way my mother slammed the door. The way she said I would study medicine whether I liked it or not.

I sat up and stared at the bag on the floor. For a long time I just sat there, breathing like the air was too heavy. Part of me wanted to put the skates back in the closet and pretend I could be the daughter she needed. The quiet one. The safe one. The one who never came home with bruises or excuses.

But another part of me, the bigger part just couldn’t do it.

I got up, pulled the skates out from under the bed, and held them against my chest. The leather was cold. The laces were frayed. They still felt like home.

I was still holding them when I heard her voice in the hallway.

“Ava? You awake?”

I shoved the skates under the bed fast and opened the door.

She stood there in her robe, hair messy, eyes tired. She looked smaller than usual.

“You’re up early,” she said.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

She stepped inside and looked at the open suitcase on the floor.

“You packed light.”

“I don’t need much.”

She sat on the edge of my bed. The mattress sank a little under her weight. Neither of us spoke for a while. The house felt too quiet, like it was waiting for one of us to break.

“I hate fighting with you,” she said finally.

“Me too.”

“I only want you safe.”

“I know.”

She reached out and touched my hand. Her fingers were cold. “Your father loved that game more than anything. Sometimes I felt like he loved it more than me. I can’t watch you go down the same road.”

My throat got tight. “It’s not the same road.”

“It feels the same to me.”

I pulled my hand back gently. “I’m not him.”

“You look like him when you talk about the ice. That’s what scares me the most.”

I stared at the floor. I wanted to say something soft. Something that would make her stop worrying. But the only true thing in my mouth was the opposite.

“I need this,” I whispered. “I don’t know how to explain it better than that. When I’m not on the ice, I feel empty. Like something important is missing.”

She stood up. The soft look on her face closed off again.

“We should get going. It’s a long drive.”

That was the end of the gentle part.

We loaded the car without talking much. Every time she carried a box, I carried the skate bag myself. She never asked what was inside. I think she was afraid of the answer. Or maybe she already knew and just didn’t want to hear it out loud.

The highway was empty and white. Snow fell in slow, quiet flakes. The radio played soft music neither of us really listened to.

After a while she spoke again.

“You know he used to say you had better hands than half the boys on his old team?”

I turned to look at her. “He told you that?”

“He told everyone who would listen.” She gave a small, sad smile. “He was so proud of you. It used to make me happy. Then it started to scare me. I used to watch the two of you on the ice and think, what if she ends up like him?”

I didn’t know what to say. My chest felt too full.

She kept her eyes on the road. “I found one of his old jerseys last week in a box. It still smells like the rink. I stood there holding it for a long time. I almost threw it away.”

“Did you?”

“No. I couldn’t do it. I put it back and closed the box.”

Something in my chest cracked open a little. “Mom…”

“Don’t.” She shook her head quickly. “Please. I don’t want to talk about him today. It still hurts too much.”

We drove in silence after that. The heavy kind. The kind that sits on your shoulders and doesn’t move.

I almost told her the truth three different times. Once when we stopped for gas and she went inside to pay. Once when she bought me a coffee I didn’t drink. Once when she said she was proud of me for choosing a real future. Each time the words came up my throat and died there. I hated myself for it.

When the Frostwood University sign finally appeared, my stomach dropped so hard I felt sick.

The campus looked colder than the pictures online. Gray buildings. Bare trees. Students walking fast with their heads down against the wind. I saw two boys carrying hockey bags across the parking lot and my whole body went tight.

My mother helped me carry everything up to Room 214. The hallway smelled like burnt popcorn and old carpet. My roommate wasn’t there yet. Just two empty beds and a window that looked out on more snow.

When the last bag was down, she stood by the door with her car keys in her hand.

“Call me tonight,” she said.

“I will.”

She pulled me into a hug. It was a hard one. The kind of hug that feels like someone is trying to leave a piece of themselves behind. I closed my eyes and breathed in her perfume. The same one she had worn for years.

“Be good,” she whispered into my hair. “Please just be good for me.”

“I’ll try.”

She leaned back and looked at me for a long second. Her eyes were shiny.

“I love you, Ava.”

“I love you too.”

Then she left.

I stood in the quiet room and listened to her footsteps fade down the hall. I heard the front door of the dorm close. I heard her car start. I walked to the window and watched until the car turned the corner and disappeared.

My hands started shaking.

I sat on the bare mattress and pulled the skate bag onto my lap. The photo of me and Dad was still in the side pocket. I took it out and stared at it until my eyes burned. Me at ten years old, missing a tooth, smiling like the world was mine. Dad’s big hand on my shoulder. Both of us happy.

Outside, the wind pushed snow against the glass.

I thought about unpacking. About putting the books on the shelf and the clothes in the drawers and pretending I could be the girl she wanted. The safe one. The quiet one. The one who never stepped on the ice again.

Then I stood up.

I put the photo back in the bag, zipped it shut, and walked out of the room.

The cold hit me the second I stepped outside. I pulled my jacket tighter and started walking. Not toward the dining hall. Not toward the bookstore.

Straight toward the arena.

The big building sat at the edge of campus with its lights on. I could hear the faint sound of pucks hitting the boards even from the sidewalk. My heart was beating so hard it hurt.

I stopped at the corner and stared at the entrance.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a message from my mother:

Made it home safe. Call me when you’re settled. Love you.

I read it twice. My thumb hovered over the keyboard. I almost typed something back. Something honest. Something that would make her turn the car around.

Instead I locked the phone, pushed it deep into my pocket, and looked at the arena again.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I whispered.

Then I kept walking toward the ice.