Days had passed since the explosion — the fight that shattered whatever fragile peace remained between Max and her mother. The house was quiet, but the silence wasn't peace. It was heavy. Tense. Sad.
Max barely left her room. The curtains stayed drawn. The walls of her space, once filled with laughter, music, and late-night calls, now felt like a cage. She wasn't eating much. She barely spoke. Her replies to her mother were short, automatic:
"Yes, Mom."
"I've eaten."
"I'm fine."
Lies. But safe lies. Lies that kept her from another war of words.
Her mother — Angela — was worried. But like many mothers, worry wore the mask of duty. She didn't show it openly, but she checked the door quietly, made Max's favorite meals, and left them untouched on a tray. She wanted to say more, but didn't know how. Her love was real, but it had become sharp, guarded — the kind that didn't always feel soft.
Meanwhile, outside that room, the world didn't stop. Jane had been texting. Nick had been calling. Michael even came by, trying to say something comforting, but Max wasn't the kind of girl you console with a few soft words and a pat on the back. She hated being pitied. She hated needing anyone. Still, the hurt showed in the way she didn't respond, in the tired way she looked through people like glass.
Michael got tired of being shut out. So he called Jane. Told her, "I think she needs you."
Jane didn't need to be told twice.
She came the next day. Michael was surprised she took it seriously — she always did when it came to Max.
When Jane entered the house, the tension hit her like a wall. She greeted Angela softly. The woman's eyes were tired, her voice dry, but she answered with a nod. Jane didn't push — she understood too much already.
Upstairs, Jane knocked gently. No response.She opened the door.Max was curled on the bed, knees to chest, staring at nothing. Her skin looked pale. Her soul looked gone.When she saw Jane, Max didn't speak. She just stood up, crossed the room, and hugged her — tight. Then, like a dam breaking, the tears came. She sobbed — not loud, but deep, painful. Jane held her. Stunned. She had never seen Max like this. Not even close.
They sat. Jane listened.
Max told her everything. About the party. The slap. The fight. The way her Dad looked at her like he didn't know her and how he had been giving her cold shoulders since then ,The silence. The shame.Jane teased her a little, trying to lighten the air. "Your mom really slapped you? Damn, I thought only movies were that dramatic."Max gave a broken laugh.Then they dropped the sadness. They watched silly movies. Played dumb games. Jane tried everything — anything — to make her laugh again. And she did. After hours, Max actually laughed. A small sound. But real.Still, there was tension. Michael kept hovering — trying to flirt with Jane, dropping light jokes and glances. Jane laughed it off, but Max noticed. And she didn't like it.Jane saw her friend's face tighten and quickly shifted focus.She didn't come here for that.Later that evening, Jane sat beside Max and said, "You need to talk to her."Max sighed. "Talk to who?""Your mom. She's hurting too. And you're both just... standing in the middle of a fire waiting to burn."Max didn't answer.But the words stayed with her.
That night, long after Jane had gone, Max stood at her door. Heart pounding. She hadn't walked down this hallway in days. Her feet felt heavy. Like each step was a decision.She reached her mother's door.Paused.She used to walk in freely. That door was once a safe space — perfume scents, soft lights, warm hugs. Now, it felt like a wall between two strangers.She knocked.No answer.She opened the door slowly.Angela was at her dresser, flipping through paperwork for her cosmetics and perfume shop. Her face was tired, but not cold.Max stood there, trembling. "Mom... can we talk?"Angela turned. Her eyes softened. "Of course."And that was when the healing began.
Angela looked up from her papers, surprised by Max's voice. It had been days since she heard her daughter speak more than a few words — and even longer since she had seen her like this.
Max stepped in slowly, like a child in a stranger's house. Her voice was low. "I... I don't even know where to start."Angela didn't interrupt. She closed the file in front of her and turned on the chair, facing her daughter fully. For the first time in a while, it wasn't mother versus daughter. It was just two women — one older, one younger — both broken in different ways. She paused. Tears started again, silently. "That day... when you slapped me... I didn't cry because it hurt. I cried because I felt like I had lost you. I've heard about it from friends. But I never thought you would do it. And I know I pushed you. I said things I shouldn't have said. But I was hurting too. And I didn't know how to say it."Angela's throat tightened. Her hands were still in her lap, clenched.Max continued, voice shaking. "I always feel like I have to be this version of me you can be proud of. The smart one. The responsible one. The one who never talks back. But sometimes, Mom... I break too. Sometimes, I just want to be held. Not corrected. Not judged. Just held."Silence.Then Angela stood up. Slowly.She walked to Max, placed a hand gently on her shoulder, and whispered, "I didn't know you felt all that."Her voice trembled. "I was scared, Max. Scared of losing you to a world I can't control. Scared that maybe I failed you somewhere along the way. I slap because I was angry, yes... but also because I was helpless. And I'm sorry. That's not the kind of mother I want to be."Max looked up at her, eyes red. "I just needed you to ask me what was wrong. Not fix it. Just... be there." Angela pulled her into a hug. This time, there were no words. Just the warmth of skin. The sound of hearts slowing down. The feeling of forgiveness without conditions.That Saturday night, something shifted.It wasn't perfect. It wasn't sudden peace.But it was a start — a healing only truth could begin.
That night, after her talk with her mom, Max felt something shift inside her — like the weight on her chest had cracked just enough to let in air. But even with that small relief, her heart still felt red — sore, raw. Healing had started... but it wasn't finished. There was one more person she had to face.Her dad.Dinner had been quiet. Uncomfortably quiet. Her dad hadn't said much — just the occasional nod, a few questions about the food, then silence. She could feel the tension around him like smoke. Not burning... but still there. Still thick. And that silence hurt more than shouting ever could.Later that evening, Max stood outside his home office, hesitating. This was the room where lectures happened, where advice was given, where her father turned from "Daddy" turned into" Dad" She had avoided this door for days.She knocked lightly.A pause. Then his calm voice: "Come in."She stepped in slowly, heart pounding. He was at his desk, reading something. He looked up, then removed his glasses, folding them carefully — always so composed. Always in control.
Max stood in front of the desk, hands clasped. "Dad... I just... I wanted to say I'm sorry."
He studied her for a moment. Then he leaned back in his chair and spoke — not with anger, but quiet honesty."I'm not mad that you went out, Max. I'm not even mad that you drank," he said. "I was your age once. I understand curiosity."Her eyes widened slightly. She hadn't expected that."What I'm mad about," he continued, "is the disrespect. To your mother. To me. To the values we raised you with. You want freedom? Fine. But freedom without respect is chaos."His voice didn't rise, but it went deeper — like it was speaking to her spirit, not just her ears."You're growing. I see it. And I know it's not easy. But there's a right way to grow. Not in a wayward way. Not in a way we didn't train you for. You're the last born, yes... but that doesn't mean you get a pass for every mistake."Max lowered her head. Each word felt like a mirror she had been avoiding. He wasn't condemning her — he was calling her higher."I'm sorry, Dad," she whispered, voice trembling. "I really am."He stood up, walked over, and pulled her into a hug. Firm. Warm. The kind of hug that made you feel safe... even when you'd failed
"I forgive you," he said quietly. "But you have to forgive yourself too. And do better."
Max nodded against his chest. "I will."That night, as she lay on her bed, she stared at the ceiling for a long while. Not thinking. Just... breathing. Feeling. Healing.Before she turned off the light, she reached for her phone.She typed a simple message to Jane:"Thank you. For being there. I mean it "
Then she turned off her phone ,rolled over ,and for the first time in weeks..
She slept in peace.
End chapter 5.