Chapter 32 Rosemarie
THIRTY-TWO
ROSEMARIE
I braced my hands on the edge of the marble sink in the bathroom, watching the way my fingers curled—tight and trembling—against the cool stone. Looking up into the mirror, my face was pale, jaw set too hard. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t cry.
The door opened gently behind me. Mom’s heels clicked once against the tile before pausing behind me.
“You okay?” she asked softly. I didn’t answer. Just stared down at the sink like it might offer me a place to disappear. She moved beside me, not crowding, just … being present. Her reflection joined mine in the mirror—composed, poised, eyes searching.
“Your dad’s … under a lot of pressure right now,” she said after a long pause. “He had a meeting this afternoon. It didn’t go well. Something about the Glen Ridge property appraisal being adjusted last minute. He’s not handling it great.”
“That’s not my problem,” I said, sharper than I meant to. “None of that is my problem.”
Mom inhaled through her nose, then let it out slowly. “I know it’s not. I’m just saying, maybe don’t take everything he says tonight so—”
“So personally?” I cut in, turning to face her. “Mom, it is personal. Every single time he makes one of those comments, every time he rolls his eyes or acts like my bookstore is some sentimental money pit, he’s not talking about a client. He’s talking about me.”
Her face softened, a wrinkle of concern between her brows. I wasn’t done.
“I know you both love me,” I continued, voice trembling now. “I know you’ll show up with a checkbook when things fall apart. I know you’ll say you’re proud. But it’s like you love me from a distance. Like you’re investors, not parents.”
“Rosemarie—”
“No, let me finish.” I pulled back from her hand when she reached for me.
“You’re present when something’s broken.
When I need help. But what about the rest of it?
What about being there when I’m trying? When I’m doing something I’m proud of that doesn’t involve needing to be saved?
I feel like I have to be in a crisis for either of you to notice.
And even that is starting to get fickle. ”
The silence that followed was deep and immediate. Heavy, like it absorbed the air between us. Mom looked down at her hands. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”
I shrugged, blinking back the sting behind my eyes. “I didn’t really let myself feel it. Until the flood.” I took a deep breath, knowing that my next words may cut deep and give away too much. “The pipe burst and you guys didn’t even come. You sent Gavin … and he came.”
She nodded slowly, then reached up and gently tucked a loose curl behind my ear. The motion made me want to cry more than anything else. Not because it hurt—but because it was tender.
“You’re right,” she said finally. “We’ve made a lot of choices that looked like support but were really just … management. Really poor management. We’ve treated your life like a project.”
I didn’t respond. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me.
I didn’t expect it, not so soon after everything I’d just said, but I sank into it anyway. Her perfume—jasmine and lavender—smelled the same as it had when I was little.
After a long moment, she whispered against my hair, “Does he treat you well?”
I pulled back enough to look at her. “What?” Her eyes matched mine, shiny with tears, but her face didn’t crumple. It just held them, soft and open.
She lifted one hand and rested it gently on my cheek. Her fingers were cool. Her thumb didn’t move, it just stayed there like an anchor.
“I’ve known Gavin a long time,” she said. “He’s not a talker. Not unless something’s broken or someone bought the wrong tiles. But out there? Tonight?” She gave a small shake of her head. “He spoke more during that dinner than I’ve heard him speak at any meeting in the last ten years.”
I swallowed, stunned by the honesty in her voice.
“That man grunts through birthday parties,” she added quietly, with a whisper of a smile. “But for you? He made conversation. He took a side. He looked right at your father and didn’t flinch.” My brow furrowed as I tried to absorb it all. “He’s paying attention. And you deserve someone who does.”
A silence settled between us again—this one less sharp, more like something wrapping around the edges.
“I just want you to be happy,” she said. “Even if it’s not the version you think we imagined for you.”
I nodded, chest tight. “I am happy. With him. It’s just … complicated.”
She gave my cheek one last pat and stepped back. “Most real things are.”
After a long moment, I whispered, “I am scared to tell Dad.” She said nothing at first. So I kept going.
“I don’t want this to come between everyone.
Between Dad and I. Or between him and Gavin as business partners.
It already feels fragile. I don’t want to be the reason it breaks.
” I pulled back a little, my voice barely above a breath.
“I don’t want to have to choose between him and Gavin. Because I don’t think I can.”
Mom’s eyes held mine. They were clear, watery but steady.
“You won’t have to,” she said simply. “Don’t worry about your father. I’ll handle him.” I blinked, surprised. A smile tugged at her lips, small and tired. “He’s stubborn, but he listens to me. Eventually. And if he doesn’t, well …” She shrugged. “I’ll make him.”
Despite everything, I let out a breathy laugh. “You’re scary when you want to be.”
“I’m a mother,” she said with a wink. “It’s part of the job.”
Then her expression shifted again—gentler, searching. She looked at me closely.
We both glanced at the door.
“You ready?” she asked.
I nodded again, steadier this time. “Yeah.”