Trent
The smell of Mom’s lasagna drifts through the house—warm, rich, comforting enough to make my stomach growl on instinct.
Dinner once a week has always been our thing. For as long as I can remember, it’s been just me and Mom. No matter how busy life gets, I never skip it. And today it’s being held at my house rather than hers.
I make my way to the kitchen, moving slow, careful not to put weight on my bad leg. My crutches tap against the tile with each step. Mom glances over her shoulder at the sound, eyes softening in that familiar way—the one that says she’s two seconds from scolding me for trying to do too much.
“Sit, sit,” she says, waving me toward the table like I might bolt if she isn’t watching.
I ease myself into the chair just as she sets down a steaming plate piled high with lasagna and garlic bread.
“Thanks,” I mumble, already reaching for the fork.
She slides into the chair across from me, the legs scraping softly on the floor, and we start eating. Silence hangs between us—not uncomfortable, just heavy—while my mind loops over Aubrey’s rushed visit earlier today.
How the hell am I supposed to fix things with her if she won’t even stay in the same room as me? Maybe I shouldn’t have worn the hoodie. Maybe I shouldn’t have said what I did. I was trying to lighten the mood, not send her sprinting for the door.
“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” Mom says, cutting through my thoughts. I blink up at her, catching that soft, knowing look that only moms have.
“I’m good,” I mutter, forcing a shrug. “Just tired.”
I’ve been trying all day to snap out of this mood, but it’s sticking harder than usual.
She lifts an eyebrow. “You sure that’s all it is?”
“Yeah,” I say, a little firmer than intended. “I’m sure.”
Mom watches me for a moment as I push lasagna around my plate, then nods toward it.
“How’s the food?” she asks, making an effort to keep the conversation alive.
I appreciate it, though small talk feels like scraping nails on a chalkboard tonight. I try not to be a complete asshole, but my patience is thinning.
“Really good. Haven’t had your lasagna in years,” I say, genuinely.
“You looked like you needed cheering up,” she says, a small smile tugging at her lips. “It was always yours and your dad’s favorite.”
I pause, my fork hovering. It’s not often that we talk about my dad, so it catches me off guard. “Was it?” I question because I barely remember much about him that wasn’t negative.
“Yeah.” She leans back in her chair to look at me, “You and your dad were like two peas in a pod. Could barely separate you most of the time.”
A tight laugh escapes me—more breath than amusement. “I guess he got bored of that in the end though, huh?”
Her expression falls just slightly, the line between her brows deepening. “I know him leaving all those years ago was hard for you,” she says gently, “but your dad loved the bones off you.”
Maybe it’s just because of today’s interaction with Aubrey, maybe it’s also because my leg is fucked and I’m easily irritable at the moment but hearing my mom talk about my dad loving me makes my blood boil.
I take in a deep breath trying to calm the reaction those words pull from me and settle my fork down on the table before looking up and her. “Just not enough to stay. And clearly not enough to treat you better.”
Mom’s eyes widen in shock. “What do you mean?”
We’ve never had this conversation, I’ve never told her all the things that I know or heard or saw. Mostly because I watched how she would try her best to pretend everything was okay and I didn’t ever want to hurt her feelings. But I can’t seem to stop myself from continuing.
“I know about the affairs, Mom. I remember the crying… the shouting… all of it.“
She goes still. The room seems to shrink around us. “I never wanted you to know those things,” she whispers.
“I know, and I probably shouldn’t have said anything, but I always hated how unhappy you were around him when you thought I didn’t notice,” I say, pushing my plate back slightly. “I never understood why you put up with it for so long.”
She folds her hands in her lap, eyes distant, haunted by a pain she clearly thought she’d buried.
“I wanted you to have good memories of your father. I wanted us to be a family—I wanted that for you.”
“I had a family,” I reply, my voice quieter now. “You are my family. You didn’t have to stay with him and ignore his behavior for me, Mom. Things were way better after he left. You were happier, and even as a kid, that’s all I ever wanted.”
She reaches across the table, brushing her thumb over the back of my hand. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
I squeeze her fingers gently. “You don’t have to be sorry. You gave me the best life. I never wanted for anything.”
A small, fragile smile appears. “I did my best.”
“You did more than your best,” I insist.
For a long moment, we sit in silence, the weight of our words hanging in the air. Then she says quietly, almost to herself, “You remind me of him sometimes, you know.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. How could she say that? I’ve spent my whole life trying not to be like him. I kept women at arm’s length so I’d never lead anyone on, never deceive them with my actions. I made sure everyone I was involved with understood my boundaries.
Because of those boundaries, I lost the only woman I’ve ever wanted for more than one night. And even though my dad’s been out of my life for twenty years, I blame him for all of it.
“Don’t say that,” I snap, my pulse racing.
She blinks, surprised. “Why?”
I shake my head sharply. “The man cheated on you and abandoned our family. I don’t want to be anything like him. The idea that I could be like him…” My voice cracks on the last words.
“Trent, I didn’t mean it like that,” she says gently.
I rake a hand through my hair, staring down at the lasagna I suddenly can’t bring myself to eat.
“Why do you think I’ve never had a real relationship?
Why do you think I’ve never brought a girl home to meet you?
It’s because when I look in the mirror, the person staring back looks just like him.
I didn’t want to be the reason people got hurt, and I didn’t trust myself not to end up being just like him. ”
She sits up straighter, “Now you listen here, Trent. You’re a good man, and I know you would never intentionally hurt anyone.”
I push my palms into the table, feeling the grain of the wood under my fingers, avoiding her gaze.
She leans forward, eyes locking onto mine.
“I’m sorry if saying you remind me of him hurt you.
If I’d known how that would make you feel, I never would’ve said it.
But just because you look like him—or remind me of him sometimes—does not mean I think you’ll make the same choices he did.
You are not your dad, Trent. You’ve always been exactly who you were meant to be—you. ”
She squeezes my hand and offers me a soft smile.
“I don’t want you going through life scared to find love or happiness because of what happened between your father and me.
Promise me you’ll stop thinking like that.
Promise me you’ll give yourself a chance to love.
Don’t let this stop you from risking it all, from being reckless. ”
My throat tightens. “Mom…”
“Promise me.” Her voice is calm, unwavering.
I meet her eyes—the same soft blue I grew up trusting—and nod. “I promise.”
She exhales, shoulders finally relaxing, a relieved smile tugging at her lips as she pats my hand once more before lifting hers and picking up her fork again.
“Good,” she says lightly. “Because I expect a daughter-in-law and some grandbabies someday.”
I choke on nothing but air. “Slow your roll, woman.”
She laughs—really laughs—and the sound fills the kitchen, warm and familiar, cutting through the heaviness between us. It’s so unmistakably her that I shake my head, a small, genuine smile creeping across my face.
And somehow, just talking to her like that makes something in me feel lighter.
Maybe if I can hold onto that, I’ll have a real chance at making things right with Aubrey.