12. Chapter 12
Caitlin
Grandma Louise’s farmhouse is crowded with mourners. I’ve been keeping myself busy helping serve the funeral luncheon, trying not to think about the fact that she really is gone. I’m refilling the coffee urn when I hear–
“Caitlin.”
I turn at the sound of my name. My mother, Leslie, stands there, staring at me.
She looks older and harder than the mother of my memories.
Her face is lined, and her blonde hair is pulled back into a severe knot at the back of her head.
She’s painfully thin, her black dress hanging off of her.
I hadn’t even realized she was here before this. Nobody expected her to come.
“Mom.”
She looks me up and down, her expression unreadable. “It’s been a long time.”
Her voice is raspier than I remember, scratched by years of cigarettes. I turn slowly, coffee pot still in hand.
“Twelve years,” I say flatly. “Give or take a few months.”
She ignores the edge in my voice. “You grew up pretty enough.”
I set down the coffeepot carefully, resisting the urge to throw it. “Thank you for coming. Grandma would have appreciated it.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
“So,” she says, crossing her arms. “You going to college in the fall?”
The question catches me off guard. Such a normal, maternal thing to ask. “I haven’t decided yet. I’m enjoying working at the restaurant, and—”
“God, you’re just like me at your age,” she interrupts, her mouth twisting. “Thinking you can just float along, waiting for life to happen to you. Let me tell you how that story ends — knocked up and abandoned, just like I was.”
Heat rushes to my face. “I’m not even dating anyone right now.”
But Mom isn’t listening. Her eyes have a faraway look, like she’s seeing ghosts.
“Your father was supposed to be my ticket out of this town. College boy, visiting his grandparents for the summer. Instead, he got me pregnant and disappeared back to California.” She gives a harsh laugh.
“Men always leave, Caitlin. Remember that.”
I shift uncomfortably, aware of curious glances from nearby mourners. “Look, this isn’t really the time or place—”
“You know, I always felt guilty,” she continues as if I hadn’t spoken, her voice dropping lower. “Burdening my mother with my mistake.”
The word lands like a slap. Mistake. Me. I try to steel myself against the hurt, but it finds its way in.
“But I was drowning,” Mom says, gesturing sharply with one hand. “Just drowning. Working two jobs, never even finished high school, taking care of a whiny kid. I couldn’t take it anymore.”
I swallow hard. “I know it must have been difficult.”
“Difficult?” She barks out a laugh that makes several people turn to look at us. “It ruined my life. And then I ruined Mom’s retirement, too. She should have been relaxing, enjoying herself. Instead, she was chasing after some brat, working herself to death at that restaurant.”
Each word is a small cut, precise and painful. I want to defend myself, to point out that I never asked to be born. That Grandma had constantly told me how much she loved me. But the words stick in my throat.
Mom’s gaze drifts to where Uncle Peter stands talking with the minister, his arm around Aunt Charlene’s shoulders. “I guess you’ll start sponging off him next, unless you decide to grow up and stand on your own two feet.”
“You don’t know anything about me.” I hiss, keeping my voice low.
For a moment, something like regret flickers across her face, but it’s quickly replaced by that same hard bitterness. “You’re better off without me, trust me on that. I did you a favor.”
“Is that what helps you sleep at night?” The words escape before I can stop them.
Mom flinches as if I’d struck her. Then she straightens, adjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder. “This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come.”
“Why did you?” I ask, genuinely curious despite myself.
“She was my mother,” she says simply. Then she turns on her heel and walks away, weaving through the crowd toward the front door without saying goodbye to anyone else.
I stand frozen, trying to process what just happened. My throat feels tight, and there’s a pressure behind my eyes that threatens tears, but I refuse to cry. Not over her. Not again.
“You okay?” Rachel appears at my side, concern etched on her face. “I saw you talking to… her.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, then amend: “I will be fine.”
Rachel squeezes my arm. “What did she want?”
“To remind me I’m a burden and a mistake, mostly.” I try for a light tone, but my voice cracks.
Rachel’s face darkens. “That absolute—”
“It doesn’t matter,” I cut her off. “She’s gone. Again.”
“Good riddance,” Rachel mutters, but I can see the worry in her eyes. “Come on, let’s get some air.”
“No, I just need…I need a little time alone.” I tell her. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now.
“Are you sure? We could…”
“Please,” I tell Rachel, walking away. “I just need a minute.”
I slip out the back door. Outside, Grandma’s garden is still bright with the last of the summer blooms. I sit on the steps of the back porch and stare blindly into the distance. And think.
I’m still there when Uncle Peter finds me a few minutes later. “Heard your mother had a few words with you.” He sits next to me on the steps.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
“Caitlin… whatever she told you, you know it’s not true, right? You’ve never been a burden, not to Mom and not to us. We love you, honey.”
“I know.” I whisper, convincing myself I believe it.
“Your mother…” he hesitates and then continues, “there was always someone else to blame for the problems in her life. Right from the time she was a kid. Everything was always someone else’s fault.”
He slips an arm around me and pulls me close. “Grandma adored you. And so do Charlene and I.”
Tears well up again, and this time I can’t hold them back. Uncle Peter pulls me more firmly into a hug, and I feel like a little girl again, seeking comfort after a nightmare.
* * *
The flowers are sitting in a vase on the kitchen counter when I get home, a sweet arrangement of yellow and white daisies and yellow roses, my favorite flowers and colors.
It’s the third bouquet this week. Adam hovers nearby, watching for my reaction, with a hopeful look on his face.
It’s become his default expression since our fight about the cruise.
I smile and thank him, but inside I’m screaming: Where was all this effort when it actually mattered?
“I made dinner,” Adam announces, gesturing toward the oven. “Pot roast. I used your grandma’s recipe.”
“That’s sweet,” I say, maintaining my cheerful facade. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.” He steps closer, his eyes searching mine. “Are you hungry?”
I nod, hanging my purse on the hook by the door. The apartment smells amazing, of roasting meat and vegetables and freshly baked rolls, and at any other time, this gesture would melt my heart. Now it just feels like a desperate attempt to patch a sinking ship with Band-Aids.
Adam pulls out my chair, pours me wine, serves the food with such careful attention that it’s almost painful to watch.
We’ve just gotten started when Adam’s phone buzzes on the table next to him.
He picks it up and glances at the screen.
His jaw tightens, and he slips it into his pocket, shaking his head as he does so.
When it buzzes again a few minutes later, he takes the phone out of his pocket and turns it off with a softly muttered curse.
“Better answer that,” I tell him with an amused expression. “Millie might get sad if you don’t.”
“She’ll live,” Adam mutters, cutting into his roast with slightly more force than was necessary.
“But Adam, how can you support her if you aren’t at her constant beck and call?” My voice is bright and cheerful, and Adam does not look amused.
“I’m not at her beck and call!” he snaps, and then he takes several deep breaths, bringing himself back under control. “I’d just like to have a nice dinner with you tonight with no interruptions, okay?”
“Sure,” I say with a shrug and dig into my food.
We eat in silence punctuated by his nervous attempts at conversation. How was my day? Did I see the news about the fight that broke out at the school board meeting? Isn’t this wine good?
I answer each question with bright, empty responses, watching his worry grow with each exchange. This new dynamic between us — him trying so hard; me pretending everything’s fine — feels like we’re actors in different plays accidentally sharing the same stage.
“I was thinking,” he says, setting down his fork. “About the cruise.”
“Oh?” I take a sip of wine, my smile fixed in place.
“Maybe I should stay home. We could make dinner together. Start making our own traditions.”
For a moment, a crack appears in my resolve.
A small, desperate part of me wants to say yes, to believe this is the turning point where he finally chooses me.
But I know better now. If he stays, it will be out of guilt.
The resentment would fester in both of us, and in the eyes of his mother, I would always be the jealous shrew who forced him to abandon poor Millie in her time of need.
And she’d never let either of us forget it.
“Don’t be silly,” I say, waving my hand dismissively. “Millie needs you there. I totally understand.”
His face falls, confusion replacing hope. “But I’m worried about us. Things haven’t been right since—”
“Since we moved here?” The words slip out before I can stop them, sharper than I intended.
Adam flinches. “I was going to say since I agreed to the cruise, but…” He trails off, studying me. “Is that how you feel? That things haven’t been right since we moved?”
I backpedal quickly, slipping back into my performance. “No, no. I’m just tired. Work was crazy today.” I reach across the table and pat his hand. “You promised Millie you’d be there. You should keep your promises. After all, she’s like a sister to you; she depends on you.”