Chapter Fifty-One
The Daughter Who Did Not Know Her
Sofia's house. Brooklyn. The same day. 2:00 PM.
The house was small.
Blue shutters. A porch with a swing. A bicycle in the driveway—pink, with streamers, the kind a child would ride. Irene stood on the sidewalk and stared at the door.
She had been standing there for an hour.
Her legs were shaking. Her hands were shaking. Her soul was shaking. She had walked across the city, through streets she did not recognize, past buildings that had not existed when she left. She had followed the memory of an address she had not thought about in years.
And now she was here.
"You can do this," she whispered.
She walked up the path.
Knocked on the door.
---
The woman who opened the door was thirty years old.
Dark hair. Dark eyes. A face that was beautiful in the way a question is beautiful—open, searching, familiar.
"Can I help you?"
Irene's throat tightened.
"Sofia."
"Yes?"
"I'm... I'm your mother."
The woman stared at her.
"My mother died when I was seven."
"No. I left. I didn't die. I left."
"Who are you?"
"I told you. I'm your mother."
Sofia's face hardened.
"My mother was a scholar. She studied ancient religions. She went on a dig in the desert and never came back. The police said she was probably dead. They said she was probably murdered."
"I wasn't murdered. I was—"
"What? What were you?"
Irene could not answer.
Because the truth was too terrible. The truth was too hungry.
"I was lost," she said finally. "I was lost for a very long time. But I found my way back."
"It's been twenty-three years."
"I know."
"I mourned you. I cried for you. I went to therapy for you."
"I know."
"And now you show up on my doorstep and expect me to what? Hug you? Forgive you? Call you Mom?"
"I don't expect anything."
"Good. Because you're not getting it."
Sofia stepped back.
Closed the door.
---
Irene stood on the porch.
The wind blew. The bicycle swayed. The blue shutters watched.
"Sofia," she said through the door.
No answer.
"Sofia, please."
"Go away."
"I just want to explain—"
"I don't want your explanation. I don't want your apology. I don't want you."
Irene's knees hit the porch.
She did not remember making the choice. But suddenly she was kneeling on the wooden boards, her hands pressed against the door, her tears falling onto the welcome mat.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."
The door did not open.
---
The street. The same evening.
Irene sat on the curb.
The sun was setting. The sky was orange and pink and purple—colors she had not seen in years, colors the penthouse did not have, colors the hunger had erased.
"You look like hell," said a voice.
She looked up.
Marcus stood on the sidewalk.
"What are you doing here?"
"I followed you."
"How?"
"The collar. She can track us. She sent me to bring you back."
"I'm not going back."
"Yes, you are." He sat beside her. "You're hungry, Irene. I can see it in your eyes. The same hunger I used to see in mine. The same emptiness. The same need."
"I don't care."
"Yes, you do."
He touched her face.
"Your daughter doesn't want you. She made that clear. But she does. Lilith. The goddess. The hunger. She wants you. She has always wanted you."
"I don't want to be wanted by her."
"Then what do you want?"
Irene looked at the house.
At the blue shutters. The porch swing. The pink bicycle.
"I want to go back in time. I want to be the woman I used to be. The scholar. The mother. The person who had never heard of Lilith."
"You can't."
"I know."
She stood.
"But I can stay here. I can wait. I can hope that someday she'll open the door."
"She won't."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do." Marcus stood beside her. "Because I've seen this before. The ones who leave. The ones who try to go back to their old lives. They always come back to her. The hunger is too strong. The need is too deep."
"I'm not like the others."
"That's what all the others said."
He took her hand.
"Come back with me. Kneel. Lick. Forget."
"I don't want to forget."
"Then suffer."
He walked away.
Left her alone on the curb.
---
The house. The next morning. 8:00 AM.
Irene had not moved.
She sat on the porch, her back against the door, her knees drawn to her chest. She had not slept. She had not eaten. She had not done anything except wait.
The door opened.
Sofia stood in the doorway.
"You're still here."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you're my daughter. Because I love you. Because I spent twenty-three years forgetting you, and I don't want to forget anymore."
Sofia's eyes filled with tears.
"You don't get to say that. You don't get to show up after twenty-three years and tell me you love me."
"I know."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because I had to try."
Sofia was quiet for a long moment.
Then she stepped back.
"Come in."
---
The house was warm.
Photos on the walls. Toys on the floor. The smell of coffee and cinnamon. Irene stood in the living room, her hands at her sides, her eyes moving from picture to picture.
Sofia as a baby. Sofia as a toddler. Sofia at her first day of school.
And then—nothing.
The photos stopped when Irene left.
"Sit down," Sofia said.
Irene sat on the couch.
Sofia sat across from her.
"Tell me where you were."
"I can't."
"Tell me why you left."
"I can't."
"Tell me something."
Irene looked at her daughter.
At the dark hair. The dark eyes. The face that was her own, reflected back at her.
"I was hungry," she said. "I was so hungry that I forgot everything else. I forgot my name. I forgot my life. I forgot you."
"Hungry for what?"
"For her."
"Who?"
"A woman. A goddess. A hunger."
Sofia stared at her.
"You're crazy."
"Maybe."
"You left me for a woman?"
"I left you for a hunger. The woman was just the source."
"I don't understand."
"No one does. Not until they've tasted her."
Sofia stood.
"I think you should go."
"Please—"
"I said go."
Irene stood.
Walked to the door.
Paused with her hand on the knob.
"I love you, Sofia. I have always loved you. Even when I forgot. Even when the hunger took everything else. I loved you."
"That's not enough."
"I know."
Irene opened the door.
Walked out.
Did not look back.
---
The street. The same time.
Marcus was waiting.
He stood on the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets, his collar hidden beneath his jacket.
"She didn't want you."
"No."
"Are you ready to come back?"
Irene looked at the house.
At the blue shutters. The porch swing. The pink bicycle.
"Yes," she said.
"Good."
He took her hand.
Led her back to the black glass tower.
Back to the elevator.
Back to the throne room.
---
The throne room. The same evening.
Lilith sat on the obsidian throne.
Her servants knelt before her—fifteen of them. Irene was the sixteenth. She knelt at the back, alone, her head bowed, her eyes empty.
"You came back," Lilith said.
"Yes, Goddess."
"Why?"
"Because I was hungry."
"And?"
"And you are the only one who can feed me."
Lilith smiled.
"Good girl."
She opened her robe.
"Now. Lick. And try to forget."
Irene lowered her mouth.
She licked.
And she tried to forget the blue shutters.
The porch swing.
The pink bicycle.
The daughter who did not know her.
She could not forget.
But she licked anyway.
---
End of Chapter Fifty-One