25. Circuits and Soup
Circuits and Soup
“ I thought I should,” I admitted. My voice wavered. “I—there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“Come on.”
She stepped aside, and the smell hit me before I even crossed the threshold.
Chicken and dumplings.
The kind that lived in my grandmother’s kitchen every fall, rich and savory, dumplings soft enough to melt on your tongue.
My knees nearly buckled. For a week I hadn’t been able to look at food without gagging, but that smell wrapped around me, warm and familiar, pulling me straight back to childhood.
Mama glanced over as I shut the door. “Making soup for the week. Keeps me from grabbing junk after work.” She studied me, eyes softer than I remembered. “You hungry?”
I shook my head fast. “No. I’m good.”
She didn’t argue. Just ladled some of the stew into a small bowl, slid it across the counter. “Taste. Tell me if it’s right.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but my stomach growled so loud it betrayed me. Her brows lifted, amused.
I sighed, dropped my bag, slid onto the stool. “Fine. Just a taste.”
Thirty minutes later, I was wiping my mouth with a napkin, staring at three empty bowls I swore I hadn’t meant to finish.
Mama rinsed dishes at the sink, cutting her eyes at me over her shoulder. “Mhmmmmm. Just a taste.”
Heat crawled up my neck. I couldn’t even pretend. The food sat warm in my belly, not fighting me the way everything else had all week. I felt almost human again.
When she set the bowls aside and dried her hands, she leaned against the counter, studying me the way she always did when she knew I was hiding something. Not pressing. Just waiting me out.
Her voice came soft, steady. “How far along are you?”
The water I’d been sipping caught wrong. I coughed, eyes burning. “What—what are you talking about? ”
She didn’t flinch. Just slid a napkin across the counter. “Baby, I’ve had two kids. Don’t play with me.”
Tears pricked fast. My chest tightened, my laugh weak. “Mama?—”
“Rayna.” Her tone was gentle but unshakable. “You can tell me.”
The napkin trembled in my hand. The truth was too heavy to hold alone anymore. My voice cracked. “I don’t know what to do.”
She circled the counter, sat beside me. For a moment, she didn’t touch me, just gave me space. “That’s not the same as not knowing how you feel.”
I shook my head, tears sliding free. “Almost everything in me says… I can’t. It’s too much. I’m not—” I broke. “I’m not ready.”
“And the rest of you?”
I swallowed hard. “The rest of me thinks about how it would be… ours. Me and Quentin. The best parts of us.”
Her eyes softened, but her hands stayed folded. “That’s not logic talking. That’s heart.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Everybody says lead with your heart. Look how well that worked for you and Daddy.”
Her lips twitched. Not anger. Something more tender. “You think because we divorced, love wasn’t real?”
“You like Quentin,” I pressed. “Like you liked Daddy.” That was me questioning her wisdom but she didn’t take the bait.
“You still like him.” I was speaking of Daddy.
Her gaze held mine. Then she gave me the smallest, saddest smile. “I do. I never stopped liking your Daddy.”
My chest squeezed. “Then why—why let it go? ”
She exhaled, slowly. “Because we were young. We had you and Darren before we even knew ourselves. I wanted more—wanted to see more, be more—and I felt like he was standing still. Like if I stayed, I’d drown.
So I let him go.” Her voice dropped. “But I never stopped caring. Not for him. Not for the family we built.”
I stared at her, my throat tight and the realization that both Daddy and Mama realized their flaws and still loved each other through them. “You want him back. Don’t you?”
She shook her head too quickly, grabbed a rag, and busied herself with the counter. “That ship has sailed.”
“Not if you both get on it,” I said quietly. “Like that cruise.”
Her hand froze mid-wipe. Just for a second. Then she set the rag down, shoulders stiff, the silence answering for her.
We sat in the kitchen a while longer, the pot still simmering, R&B humming soft from the speaker on the sill. Maze— Before I Let Go . I closed my eyes, let the groove fold over me, memory opening like a door.
Kennywood Park in the summer. Mama dragging us onto roller coasters while Daddy stood on the ground, listing ways they could break.
That one time he gave in, rode The Jack Rabbit with her, came off smiling, her kissing him so hard the whole line clapped.
Cedar Point in Ohio—Mama hauling us across the park to ride the biggest coaster twice before the lines got crazy.
Daddy trailing behind with kettle corn, shaking his head but smiling.
There had been arguments, yes. Hard words I’d overhear at night. But there had also been love. More love than I’d let myself remember. Maybe I’d been avoiding Mama not because she was cold, but because she reminded me of what I’d lost. And what I was afraid to lose again.
Later, when the tears slowed, she reached out, brushing my hair back the way she used to when I was sick as a girl. The touch undid me.
“You can’t keep running from what makes you vulnerable,” she said softly. “That’s where the real living is. For you. For that child. For the love you already know you want.”
I folded into her hand, quiet sobs slipping free. She pulled me against her chest, and I let her hold me, just like when Daddy left.
That night, I stayed. Her bed smelled like lavender lotion and soup that had seeped into the walls. She hummed low, stroking my hair until I drifted. For the first time in weeks, the ache in my chest eased.
And in that in-between place, half asleep, I thought, maybe I don’t have to do this alone.