Chapter Thirteen #2
I hum something that’s not quite agreement, not quite dismissal, and take a long sip of water. She’s not wrong, she didn’t have the time. She was working and going to school, and I know she resents that Brooke has the luxury of classes and support groups and space to breathe.
But this is different. Our lives are different. And I’m not going to apologize for trying to make this easier for Brooke, for giving her the chance to focus on the baby and not worry about everything else. The chance I wish my ma had, had.
Still, the words hang there between us, I wish I’d had the time and the implication is clear. Brooke has it easier. Brooke should be grateful. Brooke should be here.
I drain the rest of my water and set the glass down a little too hard. “She’s trying,” I say finally, turning to face her. “We both are.”
Ma’s eyes soften a little. “How are you, honey?” she asks, stepping closer. Before I can answer, her hand is in my hair, brushing through it like she used to when I was a kid. “You look tired.”
I gently take her wrist and move her hand away. “Just work and stuff,” I say with a small shrug, trying to keep my voice light. I don’t want to talk about how exhausted I am. She’ll just worry. Or worse, she’ll start with the I told you so’s.
Instead, I turn back to the counter, grab a plate, and scoop myself some of the casserole she brought. The minced beef is buried under a thick layer of creamy sauce and melted cheese, still warm enough that steam curls up from it. The smell alone makes my stomach growl.
I dig in, taking a bite that’s probably too big and humming appreciatively as the flavours hit. Say what you will about Ma, but she can cook, that part never changed.
She watches me eat with that quiet, assessing look she always gets when she’s trying to read between the lines. I ignore it, pulling out one of the stools and sitting down at the counter. “So,” I say between bites, “did you ever find my crib?”
Ma turns back toward the sink, picking up my empty glass and refilling it. “I really think I lent it to someone,” she says, with her back to me. “I’m going to go through my phone book and check once I have the time.”
I nod, chewing slowly. “Maybe it’s in storage somewhere. Brooke and I can-”
“I can do it,” she interrupts, turning back to me quickly. “I’ll look, and I’ll let you know.”
I swallow and nod again. “Thanks, Ma.”
She gives a little wave, like it’s nothing. “Don’t mention it.”
I poke at the food on my plate for a second, thinking about Brooke’s sister. “Brooke’s sister offered us hers,” I add after a moment. “But she’s already giving us all her baby stuff, clothes, a changing table, a stroller. I feel bad taking more.”
Ma’s expression softens a little, but she doesn’t say anything beyond a simple, “I’ll look.”
I nod, spearing another forkful of casserole before glancing up at her. “How’s Clyde?”
She shrugs, turning back toward the sink and rinsing out the glass she just filled for me. “He’s… fine.”
The hesitation in her voice is obvious. I set my fork down and lean forward on my elbows. “What’s wrong?”
Ma exhales, the sound more like a sigh than a breath.
“It’s just… different,” she admits, her eyes fixed on the sink.
“When you’re together all the time on a cruise, sunshine, cocktails, someone else doing the laundry, it’s easy to like someone.
But now that we’re back in the real world, I’m remembering all the reasons I never dated before. ”
I grin, because I know she’s opening the door for me to tease her. “Me?”
She shoots me a look, one eyebrow arched. “Not you.”
I raise a brow of my own. “Not just me?”
A reluctant smile tugs at her lips. “Not just you,” she concedes.
“I didn’t want to be tied to an ego again.
I didn’t want to bend myself around someone else’s wants and moods.
I raised you to pick up after yourself and if I didn’t pick up after my own child, I sure as hell am not going to pick up after someone else’s. ”
I can’t help but grin at that, the memory slipping in before I can stop it. “Yeah,” I murmur, “I remember.”
And I do, every single time she smacked me upside the head for leaving my underwear on the bathroom floor, or when I’d leave a sink full of dirty dishes waiting for her after work.
I remember her lecture about how ‘if you’re old enough to make a mess, you’re old enough to clean it up.
’ At the time, it felt like nagging. Now I realize it was her way of teaching me to be responsible, to not expect anyone, especially a woman, to clean up after me.
She must see the memory on my face because her expression softens. “See?” she says lightly. “I wasn’t just yelling for no reason.”
I snort. “Could’ve fooled me back then.”
Her mouth twitches. “You’re lucky I didn’t toss those dishes out the window.”
I shake my head, smiling into my glass. It’s weird, even now, with a baby on the way and a family of my own forming, she still manages to make me feel like that teenage boy trying to dodge chores.
But beneath the teasing, I know what she’s really saying: she’s done taking care of people who refuse to take care of themselves. And maybe that’s why she’s okay being on her own.
It’s not loneliness. It’s peace.