Chapter 23 #2
“Fuck yes, this is a dream. Okay, wow. Yeah, I’ll be there. Love you.” Daniel hung up, and I sighed, relieved that I had him. He was the only one who thought my idea was worth pursuing. Didn’t matter if he was eighteen. He was bold and courageous, fun and charismatic, and was always himself.
I wanted to be like him. I mentally started a list of everything I had to do when my phone buzzed. Noah.
My stomach flipped as my fingers scrambled to read it. Yet the excitement turned to dread within a second.
Mom: We’re in the city. Thought we’d surprise you. Can we see you?
Surprise.
I stared at the screen, that old reflex kicking in—the immediate calculation of how to make this easier for everyone else. The urge to say yes without thinking, to rearrange the day, to brace myself and perform. My fingers hovered, unmoving.
Miles looked up at me then, eyes bright. “Is Uncle Noah texting you?”
“No,” I said softly. “It’s my mom.”
“Oh.” He thought about that for a second. “Is she nice?”
The question landed gently but directly, like only a five-year-old could manage. I opened my mouth, then closed it again, unsure how to answer without lying or oversharing.
“She loves me,” I said finally.
He accepted that and went back to his Legos, satisfied. I stared at my phone again, then typed back. Did I want to see my mom? Yeah, I did. It had been too long.
Me: Let’s meet at a coffee shop. There’s a place called Benny’s. When are you here?
Mom: Now
Again, the gross feeling rooted in my gut. They were expecting me to say yes, to drop plans. And they knew I would too.
“Hey, Miles, want to meet my mom and get a special whipped cream drink?”
“Yes!” He threw the Lego’s down and stared at me with wide eyes. “My mom loves those! She always drinks them and lets me eat all the whipped cream!”
He was so excited his voice rose an octave but then he stilled. “She can’t have them anymore though. She’s dead.”
“Hey, hey.” I moved toward him, bending low and putting my finger over his heart. “She is always, always going to be in here. She is always with you. And you know what? You can have an entire drink to yourself today. Our special treat.”
“That is cool!” He smiled and nodded. “Let’s go do it.”
The café smelled like burnt espresso and cinnamon when we walked in, the kind of place that tried too hard to feel cozy and mostly succeeded.
Miles immediately broke away from my side, magnetized toward the pastry case like it was calling his name, while I scanned the room and spotted my parents at a small table near the window.
My stomach tightened, not from fear exactly but from the familiar tension of stepping into a version of myself I hadn’t chosen in years.
My mom stood the second she saw me, her smile wide and practiced, arms already opening.
She moved a little slower than she used to, one foot careful as she stepped around the chair, and I noticed it the way I always did—quietly, without comment.
“Emily!” she said, pulling me into a hug that was warm but brief, her hand patting my back twice before she pulled away. “You look thin.”
“Hi, Mom,” I said, stepping back before the comment could settle too deeply.
I kept my smile in place, because I loved her and because I knew she didn’t always realize what slipped out anymore.
Seven years post-stroke, she was mostly herself again—but sometimes her words still arrived out of order, without the filter they used to pass through.
My dad stood more slowly, hands shoved into his pockets, his expression softer than I expected and sharper than I wanted.
He looked older than I remembered, or maybe I was seeing him more clearly now.
“Hey, Em,” he said, like we hadn’t talked on the phone a dozen times this year and disagreed every single one of them.
“This is Miles,” I said, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Noah’s nephew.”
Miles waved enthusiastically, chocolate already on his fingers. “Hi. I’m five. I like dragons and pancakes.”
My mom laughed immediately, delighted in the easy way she always was with kids. My dad smiled too, but there was something measuring in his eyes as he nodded, like he was taking stock instead of meeting a child. “Nice to meet you, buddy,” he said, voice polite and contained.
We ordered drinks and sat, Miles perched happily with his whipped cream and hot chocolate while I took the chair across from my parents.
The conversation started light, the way it always did—traffic complaints, weather observations, how crowded the city felt lately.
My mom talked about a neighbor’s new dog, my dad nodded along, and for a few minutes our family conversation almost felt normal.
It never stayed that way.
“So,” my dad said eventually, stirring his coffee even though he hadn’t added anything to it. The spoon clinked against the ceramic, repetitive and unnecessary. “How is your clothing thing going? You’re nannying too?”
My shoulders tensed instantly, my spine straightening like muscle memory kicked in. “It’s not a thing, Dad,” I said evenly. “It’s my business. I’m working with the Rampage to launch a line. That’s not a thing.”
He nodded like he’d expected that answer, like this conversation had already played out in his head without my participation. “Right. But it’s not exactly a full career, is it?”
My mom jumped in quickly, her hand touching his arm in that familiar, mediating way. “Your father worries,” she said gently. “You know how he is.”
“I do,” I replied, keeping my voice calm even as something hot coiled in my chest. “I’ve known my whole life.”
He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms like he was settling in for a lecture.
“I don’t want to see you waste time on something that doesn’t lead anywhere,” he said.
“You’re not twenty anymore, Em. At some point, you have to grow up.
You’re not staying on our insurance after this year, and nannying and making clothing aren’t sufficient enough. ”
The words hit harder than I expected, sharp and familiar, like they’d been waiting patiently to be used again.
My first instinct was to explain—to justify numbers, timelines, proof that I wasn’t irresponsible or naive.
I felt myself start to shrink, start to shape my response around what might make him comfortable.
Miles beat me to it.
“She makes clothes for people,” he said simply, blowing on his chocolate milk. “People like them. That means it’s important.”
The table went quiet, and I wanted to hug that kid so hard.
My dad blinked, clearly unprepared to be corrected by a five-year-old with chocolate on his chin. “Well,” he said slowly, recovering. “That’s… one way to look at it.”
Something shifted in my chest then, subtle but permanent. I didn’t owe them a performance. I didn’t owe him reassurance or softened edges.
“I’m doing well,” I said calmly. “My orders are up. I’m working with a professional team. I’m building something that matters to me, and I’m proud of it. What a shame, that my parents, the people who created me, can’t celebrate that.”
My dad studied me, really looked at me, and for the first time I didn’t rush to fill the silence.
I didn’t explain further or ask for approval.
If he was uncomfortable, that was his burden to carry.
I hated so much that our relationship would never go back to what it was, pre-stroke.
He and I used to be close, and now we were… this.
Miles used a blue and orange crayon to draw hearts on the placemat, his brow furrowed in concentration. I was glad that he didn’t hear this.
My mom reached for her cup, her hand steady despite everything she’d lost and regained. “We want you to be safe,” she said, her voice sincere.
“I am,” I replied. And for once, I meant it without hesitation or qualification.
We didn’t stay long after that. The conversation never fully recovered its easy rhythm, but I didn’t try to fix it. Outside, my dad hugged me longer than usual, his grip tighter, like he was trying to communicate something.
“Think about what I said,” he murmured. “You’re off our insurance next year, and you need a real job to take care of yourself. I can’t… I can’t keep being your lifeline, Em. I hope you see that.”
I didn’t respond. I gave my mom a huge hug and left them on the sidewalk, grabbing Miles’s hand.
On the walk home, Miles swung my hand back and forth, humming to himself like the world hadn’t shifted for me. “Your dad was kind of grumpy,” he observed, entirely unbothered.
I laughed softly. “That’s one word for it.”
He thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Uncle Noah says sometimes grown-ups get scared and say mean things.”
I stopped walking and crouched so we were eye to eye. “He’s very smart,” I said, meaning it. Noah always could summarize complicated things down to their bone. They could be a huge assignment or a life lesson, but Noah was the best at getting down to the point.
Miles nodded, satisfied. “Yeah, my mom always said I reminded her of him. That made me feel proud.”
“You have so many things to be proud of, kiddo. And I hope you know that people are always going to have thoughts on what you do, but as long as you’re proud of yourself, that’s all that matters.”
Speak for yourself.
Miles nodded and tugged my hand. “You’re super smart too, Em. I wanna be like you someday too.”
My heart clenched, and I held my head a little higher. If this kid thought of me this way, then maybe I was doing something right.