9. Chapter 9
Adam
I pull into my parents’ driveway and let the engine idle for a minute, just staring at the house where I grew up. Colorful gourds adorn the porch, and a cheerful scarecrow stands sentinel. The porch light flicks on; she’s been watching for me. With a sigh, I kill the engine.
I should have gone straight home to Caitlin, but Mom’s text had that urgent undertone she’s perfected over thirty-some years of motherhood.
The one that says, “This is optional, but we both know it’s not.
” I grab my phone and send Caitlin a quick message: “At my parents. Home soon.” At least, I hope I’ll be home soon. Nothing with my mother is ever quick.
Getting out of my truck, I make my way to the front door. Before I can knock, it swings open, and there’s Mom, every hair perfectly in place, lipstick perfectly applied despite it being almost seven in the evening.
“Adam,” she says, like I’m a long-lost traveler rather than someone who lives fifteen minutes away. “I was starting to worry.”
“I texted I was on my way.” I bend down to kiss her cheek, smelling the familiar scent of Chanel No. 5 that’s been her signature since before I was born. “The Hendersons had a plumbing emergency at one of their rentals. A pipe burst in the basement.”
She ushers me inside, hand pressing against my back. “Well, you’re here now. Have you eaten? I can heat something up.”
“I’m fine, Mom. Caitlin’s off work and she’s cooking tonight.” I try to keep my tone light, but Mom’s slight grimace at Caitlin’s name doesn’t escape me. “What’s up? Your text sounded important.”
“Oh, it can wait until you’ve had something to drink. Come sit down.” She leads me to the living room, where everything is in its place, as always. The couch pillows arranged at precise angles, family photos in matching frames, not a speck of dust anywhere.
I sit on the edge of the couch, hoping that whatever this is won’t take long. Dad’s conspicuously absent, which means Mom wants to talk to me alone first, never a good sign.
“Coffee? Or maybe some of that herbal tea Millie brought over? She says it’s great for stress.” Mom hovers, not quite sitting down herself.
“Just water is fine, Mom. I can’t stay long.” I try to sound firm, but my voice has a slight give to it that Mom always detects, like a predator sensing weakness.
She brings me water in one of the good glasses; the ones reserved for company, and perches on the armchair across from me. Her posture is perfect, hands folded in her lap, the way she sits when she’s about to ask for something significant.
“So,” she begins, drawing out the word. “Thanksgiving is coming up.”
I nod, taking a sip of water. “Just a few weeks away.”
“It’s going to be… difficult this year.” Her voice softens, and genuine sadness crosses her face. “For Rhonda especially. And Millie.”
And there it is. Millie. I should have known.
My chest tightens. Eric Greene’s death hit everyone hard.
He was my dad’s best friend, a fixture in our community, in my life.
My high school football coach, who’d always pushed me to be the best version of myself, the man who’d taken me fishing when Dad was too busy with work.
He was the man who always let me help him with his carpentry projects.
Who’d first instilled in me a love of working with my hands. And he was Millie’s father.
“Yeah,” I say, because what else is there to say? Death leaves these craters that nothing can fill.
“You know Thanksgiving was Eric’s holiday.” I nod. It’s true. The Greenes hosted Thanksgiving for our two families for as long as I can remember. Mom’s eyes are distant now, remembering. “He insisted on deep-frying the turkey every year, even after he nearly burned down their garage.”
I smile despite myself. “And he made everyone wear those stupid felt pilgrim hats he bought in bulk.”
“Exactly.” Mom leans forward. “Rhonda’s been beside herself thinking about it. She can’t bear the thought of the holiday without him, but she doesn’t want to disappoint Millie by not celebrating at all.”
I nod, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for whatever favor she’s building up to asking.
“Your father and I have been talking, and we think we’ve found a solution.” She reaches for a brochure on the side table and hands it to me. “A Thanksgiving cruise. Five days, four nights. The ship leaves from Miami the Wednesday before Thanksgiving.”
I flip through the glossy pages of smiling families, buffet tables, and ocean views. “A cruise?”
“We’d all go. Your father and I, Lauren and Jake, Hailey, and of course Rhonda and Millie.” She watches me carefully. “We thought it might be good to create fresh memories this year, somewhere completely different.”
My stomach sinks as I scan the brochure again; it doesn’t escape me what name she didn’t mention. “And Caitlin?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
Mom’s smile tightens at the corners. “Well, darling, this is very short notice. I imagine she couldn’t get the time off from that new job of hers.”
“She might be able to.” I set the brochure down. “She should at least have the option to try.”
Mom sighs, the kind that says I’m being difficult when I should be reasonable. “Adam, this is really about Millie and Rhonda. About helping them through their first holiday without Eric.”
“I understand that,” I say, though what I understand more is the subtext: Caitlin isn’t family, not really, not in Mom’s eyes. “But Caitlin’s my fiancée. If I’m going on a cruise for Thanksgiving, she should come too.”
“Millie’s been so fragile lately,” Mom says, changing tactics. “She acts strong at work and when around others, but Rhonda says she cries herself to sleep most nights. Poor girl just hates the idea of others worrying about her; she doesn’t want to be a burden.”
The weight of responsibility settles on my shoulders, familiar and suffocating.
I’ve been expected to take care of Millie Greene since we were kids.
Born with a congenital heart defect, Millie endured open-heart surgery twice before her fifth birthday.
And protecting Millie just gradually became my responsibility.
Both my parents and the Greenes encouraged me to make sure other kids didn’t hurt her by playing too rough with her.
To make sure nobody picked on her at school.
And then when we were teenagers, a visit to the doctor to find out why Millie had so many bruises on her legs ended with a diagnosis of leukemia.
I can still remember Rhonda sobbing in my mother’s arms the day she got the call.
The way my dad and Eric sat together on the Greene’s front porch, eyes glassy, saying nothing, dad’s hand on Eric’s shoulder.
Millie’s survival became the focus of both our families.
And somehow, her happiness became my responsibility.
I sat with her during every chemo session, shaved my head so we’d match when hers fell out.
I was the one who talked her through it when her fear of dying got the better of her.
With her parents, she put on a happy, cheerful face, not wanting to add to their worries. It was in my arms she cried.
“Mom—” I start, but she cuts me off.
“She asks about you, you know. Rhonda says your name is the first thing Millie mentions when she gets home. ‘How’s Adam?’ ‘Have you seen Adam?’ ‘Is Adam coming over?’ She doesn’t understand why you don’t visit more.”
I run a hand through my hair, feeling trapped. “I spend more time with her than I do with my fiancée these days.”
“I’m sure you’re doing your best,” Mom says in a tone that makes it clear she doesn’t believe it, or rather, she believes I should do more. “But you’ve always been there for her during the hard times. And this… losing her father… this is the hardest yet.”
The guilt creeps in, insidious and familiar. I’ve spent most of my life feeling guilty about Millie. Guilty for not loving her the way everyone expected me to. Guilty for breaking up with her before college. Guilty for leaving Iowa and the weight of everyone’s expectations.
And now, guilty for loving Caitlin instead.
“I don’t know, Mom. I need to talk to Caitlin about this.”
“What’s there to talk about?” Mom’s voice has that edge to it now. “She can’t come. You said yourself she probably can’t get the time off.”
“That’s not the point. You didn’t even consider including her.”
Mom’s lips press into a thin line. “Adam Kelly, I raised you better than this. Millie needs you. Her father is dead, and this holiday is going to be excruciating for her. All we’re asking is that you be there for her, like you’ve always been.”
I stand up, needing to move, to escape the pressure building in my chest. Through the window, I can see the tree house Dad and Eric built when I was ten.
Millie and I had many adventures in that treehouse.
And when she was sick with cancer, we’d lay up there for hours, Millie wrapped up in a giant quilt, talking about her fears, her hopes, all the things she wanted to do when she recovered.
“You can’t abandon her now,” Mom continues, her voice softer but no less insistent. “Not when she’s already lost so much.”
“I’m not abandoning her,” I say, but the words sound hollow even to me. “I’m just… I’m trying to build a life with Caitlin now. I love Caitlin.”
“And you can. No one’s saying you can’t.” Mom stands too, moving to place her hand on my arm. “But this is just one holiday. For a girl who’s been through so much and who cares about you deeply.”
I think of Millie at fourteen, pale and thin in the hospital, squeezing my hand as the chemo dripped into her veins.
Of her standing next to me during high school, when we were crowned homecoming king and queen.
She’d worn a blue dress that made her eyes look bluer and a wig, because her hair hadn’t grown back yet.
I think of her at her father’s funeral, standing stoic and dry-eyed next to her mother until she saw me, and then collapsing into my arms, finally letting herself break.
“Has Millie asked for me to be there?” I need to know if this is Mom’s manipulation or Millie’s genuine need.
Mom hesitates just a beat too long. “Not in so many words. But Rhonda says she’s been having a particularly hard time lately. With the holidays approaching, all those memories of her dad… she could use your support.”
I close my eyes for a moment. When I open them, I’ve made my decision, though it sits like lead in my stomach. “I’ll go. But I’m going to talk to Caitlin first, see if there’s any way she can join us.”
Mom’s smile is triumphant, though she tries to mask it with gratitude. “That’s my boy, always thinking of others.” She squeezes my arm. “I’ve already booked the cabins. I got you your own, of course.”
Of course, she did. She probably booked this weeks, if not months, ago, confident she could wear me down.
“I should get home,” I say, suddenly desperate to see Caitlin, to hold her and apologize for something I haven’t even told her about yet.
“Stay for dinner,” Mom suggests. “Millie and Rhonda are coming over. We can tell them the good news together.”
“I can’t, Mom. Caitlin’s waiting.” I move toward the door, fishing my keys from my pocket. “Tell Millie I said hi, and that I’ll call her tomorrow.”
Mom follows me, her disappointment palpable. “At least take the brochure with you. Show Caitlin what we’re planning.”
I take it just to end the conversation, tucking it into my jacket pocket where it feels like it’s burning a hole against my chest. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Just remember what I said, Adam,” she calls as I step onto the porch. “Family has to come first.”
The door closes behind me, and I stand there for a moment in the cool evening air, wondering when exactly I lost control of my life. Maybe I never had it to begin with. Maybe I’ve always been defined by what others need from me, rather than what I want.
I get into my truck and start the engine, but I don’t pull away immediately. Instead, I take out my phone and look at my last text to Caitlin: “At my parents. Home soon.”
How do I tell the woman I love that I’m leaving her alone on Thanksgiving because my mother and my ex-girlfriend need me more than she does? How do I explain that I’m still untangling myself from the web of obligations that I’ve been caught in since childhood?
I don’t have answers to these questions, only the sinking feeling that I’ve failed Caitlin once again.
I’m already on thin ice with her. Her words from the other night haunt me.
I think we should break up, Adam. I don’t want to do this anymore.
I know she feels like I don’t see her, but I do.
I’ve seen her hurt expression every time I’ve needed to leave her to go to Millie.
I know I disappointed her on the night of the Halloween party.
I feel the growing distance between us, and it kills me.
I don’t want to hurt her. But I also have responsibilities to people I knew long before her.
Responsibilities I’ve carried for as long as I can remember. And I don’t know how to set them down.
With a heavy sigh, I put the truck in reverse and back out of the driveway, the brochure in my pocket a constant reminder of the choice I’ve just made.
And as I drive towards home, towards Caitlin, I wonder if I’ll ever learn how to choose my happiness over everyone else’s expectations.