Chapter 6 #2
"Not exactly," I said. "I made different choices. Got married young, focused on building a family instead of a career. Some of those choices were right for who I was then. Others..." I paused, trying to find honesty without bitterness. "Others I might make differently now."
"Like what?"
"I used to want to be a photographer. Travel writer, maybe. Document real places and people instead of the curated version we see in magazines."
Devin looked really surprised, like I'd just revealed I used to be a spy. "Seriously? What happened to that?"
"Life. Your dad was building his career, someone needed to handle everything else." True, but not complete. "The practical choices seemed more important then."
"Do you ever think about doing it now? Photography, I mean. Now that Kim and I don't need constant supervision."
I thought about the camera in my purse, about @LaurenSeesAgain and the pictures I'd been posting to an audience of twelve followers who were probably bots.
"Actually, I've been taking some pictures lately. Nothing serious, just... rediscovering what I used to love about it. It's been therapeutic."
"That's awesome. I'd love to see them sometime."
My son thought my abandoned dreams were worth pursuing. That was more encouragement than I'd gotten from anyone else in years.
We drove in silence while classic rock played and the landscape shifted from suburban sprawl to pine forests and the kind of rural beauty that reminded you why people fell in love with New England. I felt the peace that came from driving toward water.
"Mom," Devin said as we crossed the Sagamore Bridge, Cape Cod Canal stretching blue and infinite beneath us. "Can I ask you something personal?"
"Always."
"Are you and Dad okay? Because lately it seems like you guys barely talk to each other, and when you do, it's all tense and weird."
My heart stopped. I'd been so careful to maintain the facade, to keep our problems private so the kids wouldn't worry. But apparently Devin was more observant than I'd realized.
"Marriage is complicated when you've been together as long as we have," I said, choosing words carefully. "People change, and sometimes it takes work to figure out how to grow together instead of apart."
"That's not really an answer."
He was right. It was diplomatic bullshit designed to avoid telling a seventeen-year-old that his parents' marriage was probably over.
"We're working through some things," I said finally. "Nothing dramatic, just... we've gotten into patterns that aren't great for either of us. Your dad's very focused on work, and I'm trying to figure out what I want my life to look like now that you and Kim are almost adults."
"Is that why you started therapy?"
I nearly drove off the road. "How did you know about that?"
"Overheard you on the phone. And I saw the business card on your desk when I was looking for stamps." He looked at me with serious eyes that reminded me of myself at his age. "I'm glad you're doing it. You seem different lately. Like you're waking up or something."
Waking up. That was exactly what it felt like. This gradual emergence from years of sleepwalking through my own life.
"I am waking up," I said. "Trying to remember who I used to be before I became so focused on taking care of everyone else."
"Good. You deserve to be happy, Mom. Really happy, not just okay with how things are."
My seventeen year old son could see that I wasn't happy, could recognize that I deserved more than just okay. He was rooting for me to find whatever would make my life worth living again.
"Thank you," I said, my voice cracking. "That means everything to me."
The beach house was perfect. Weathered cedar shingles, white trim, wraparound porch facing the ocean like it was waiting for something beautiful to appear on the horizon.
The kind of New England cottage that looked like it had weathered every storm for a hundred years and would outlast whatever came next.
Gary and Cheryl were unloading groceries, arguing about whether they'd bought enough wine for the weekend.
My brother looked distinguished in that way men in their late fifties managed when they stopped fighting gray hair.
Cheryl looked exactly the same as always.
Competent, energetic, slightly overwhelmed by organizing celebrations for people who couldn't organize themselves anymore.
"Lauren!" Cheryl waved from the porch. "Perfect timing. Gary was just complaining that I forgot coffee."
"Brought some," I said, pulling bags from the trunk while Devin grabbed flowers and his duffel. "French roast. Figured we'd need caffeine to survive family bonding."
Gary appeared looking like a slightly older version of the brother who'd taught me to drive and covered for me when I missed curfew. Same easy smile, same ability to make everything manageable just by being there.
"There's my favorite sister," he said, pulling me into a bear hug.
"I'm your only sister."
"Details."
Inside, the cottage was everything it should be.
Beautiful furniture chosen for durability over style, nautical decorations that were charming instead of kitschy, windows that framed the ocean like living paintings.
Aunt Paula was installed in the best chair with tea and a romance novel, looking like my mother's sister except older and infinitely more patient with family chaos.
Relatives trickled in over the next hour.
Cousins I saw twice a year, family friends who'd known my mother since before I was born, the assorted collection of people who'd become honorary family through decades of shared holidays.
The kind of gathering that felt like controlled chaos but somehow always worked out.
My mother arrived at four in a wheelchair, looking smaller than I remembered but still fundamentally herself. Her eyes lit up when she saw Devin, and I watched my son transform into the kind of grandson who could make elderly women feel like the most important people in the world.
"My goodness," she said, reaching up to touch his face. "You've grown so tall and handsome. Are you still playing baseball?"
"Yes, Grandma. Actually, some colleges want to recruit me. UConn wants me to visit next month."
"College baseball." For a moment her expression sharpened with clarity that came and went unpredictably. "Your grandfather would have been so proud. He always said you had a natural swing."