SEVEN
The Boston streets filled me with nostalgia mixed with a tinge of melancholy. The city had changed over the years, yet remnants of my childhood still peeked out here and there. When I pulled into Mom’s driveway, the house I grew up in, the weight of memories settled over me. It had been months since I last visited. No matter how much time passed, being here without Dad felt foreign, uncomfortable. A familiar ache crept into my chest—I missed him every day. I needed more time with him. It wasn’t fair.
I parked and took a sober moment to compose myself. The house looked the same, yet undeniably different. Mom kept it up beautifully, but the emptiness was unmistakable. Dad enchanted any space he was in. I saw him everywhere. I didn’t want to be here without him. I don’t understand how mom did it. I somehow made my way to the front door and stopped. There’s no need to knock or ring the bell, this was my home. I just wasn’t ready to go in. I don’t know how long I stood there, but I lost track of time. My mom’s voice snapped me back to my own timeline—this one.
"Charlie, you’re here,”
she pulled me from my thoughts and wrapped me in a tight hug. Her eyes sparkled, but behind them was a shadow of sadness that mirrored my own. We didn’t need words to convey it; we felt it, together and apart.
"Hi, mom," I replied, returning her hug a little tighter and let it linger.
As we stepped inside, the scent of fresh flowers filled the air, likely Stargazer Lily’s—Mom’s favorite. The bright raspberry-red flowers always brightened our home while their sweet fragrance pleasantly lingered. She never went a day without flowers in at least three rooms. It might be a French quirk or just a Juliette thing. And then there it was, the sweet aroma of her famous homemade cookies. I smiled, thinking of Dad sneaking us a few before dinner, much to her dismay.
"How was your week?" Mom asked as we settled into the living room.
"Busy," I said. "I just finished a project for a tech CEO. I loved figuring out how to connect with ‘number nerds’—they’re the most challenging but satisfying clients."
Mom smiled knowingly. "You’ve always been ambitious. Your dad was always so proud of you. He admired how you nurtured this dream from the beginning. Amelia and you are so far removed from the art world, thankfully we have Lena. You two found such unique paths. I love that.”
“We are an odd bunch,”
I laughed, “but I think it works. All that art immersion growing up is really incorporated it into some my client experiences. I love adding those little personal touches or elements—people don’t realize all the ways you can experience art. Who wouldn’t love having a blacksmith guiding you through forging a sword in a private class?”
Mom’s eyes lit up with excitement. “That sounds fun! It’s primal yet sexy, right?”
Her enthusiasm and ability to be up for trying anything never ceased to amaze me. She loved life—all of it, even the hard parts. She always said the hard parts helped us appreciate the easy and fun parts.
A lump rose in my throat as I looked around the room. "I miss him," I whispered, taking in the photos and mementos decorating the walls. Two years later, I still half-expected Dad to walk through the door with his goofy grin and open arms.
Mom’s voice was gentle. "I miss him too. He was our rock, our happy place. Notre maison. Mon amour pour toujours.”
She whispered that last part to herself, but I still heard it.
We sat in silence before she broke it. "I've been thinking about moving back to France."
I looked up surprised, "Really? When?"
She sighed, wistful. "Your father and I always planned to retire there. It’s where we fell in love, where we started our story. Now, maybe it’s time to go back and find peace."
"I think that's beautiful, Mom. Do you have any plans or a timeline?"
She shook her head. "Nothing concrete. But I’ve started looking at places. You girls are grown, and I’ll always travel back and forth. Maybe I’ll even keep a condo here. But France is home."
“We’ll make it work,”
I assured her. “I’ll find an apartment where you can have your own room whenever you visit, and I’ll be in France several times a year. It’ll be perfect.”
We spent the afternoon imagining trips together, talking about how much we could still share. That evening we went to the Beehive, a favorite spot known for live jazz and eclectic food. As we walked in, the soulful sound of a saxophone filled the air. I loved every bit of growing up here—Boston’s melting pot of culture, art, history, and sports pride made it a place with something for everyone.
We ordered a spread of small plates: crispy calamari, truffle fries, and honey-glazed ribs. We love all the foods. We never discriminate and try everything. Between bites, we talked about everything and nothing, letting the music fill in the quiet spaces.
After dinner, we walked to Flour Bakery for a slice of Boston cream pie. As we strolled, Mom and I shared our dreams, ideas for her move, and even a bit about my breakup and relationship fears. I confessed I wasn’t sure there was someone to fit into my lifestyle, because I’m in a serious relationship with my business. That wasn’t going to changed anytime soon, possibly not ever. Not many people are wired to handle that. Now, I understood that it’s unfair to expect that. She squeezed my hand three times, just like she did when I was younger. She reassured me that when I met the right person, I’d feel it—a magnetic, unexplainable pull that I’d recognize on a different level. It sounded beautiful, but hard to comprehend the reality of it.
Later, I wandered into Dad’s study. His favorite chair, his collection of classics vinyls—Zepplin, Queen, Prince, Pink Floyd, ABBA and so many more we spent hours listening to on slow Sunday afternoon. His guitars were exactly as he left them. I strummed a few chords as I walked by and a soft note filled the room. His faded scent seemed to linger, wrapping around me like a sweet embrace. There was a photo of him from his first ultra-endurance cycling event. He hated wearing the bright, spandex onesie, but we all thought it was hilarious. Cycling became his happy place. The anger over his loss still simmered—I couldn’t shake how unfair it felt. There was no warning, no preparation. Just a normal Saturday morning, he went for a ride and never came home. Gone. No closure. No goodbyes. No saying I love you. Nothing. His life just ended. It still felt impossible.
Mom’s hand on my shoulder pulled me from my thoughts. “He’d want us to be happy, you know,”
she said softly. “He’d be disappointed if we weren’t. He lived every day like it was gift. Never looking back or too far ahead. He wanted to be here, in the moment as much as possible. I loved that about him. It was so grounding. You know he adored and loved all you girls more than anything else in this world.”
I blinked back tears and nodded. "I just need to be sad for a while. I don’t think I ever allowed myself to just be upset. Miss him. I’m angry he left me. All of us." I selfishly whispered the last part.
She smiled, a tear slipping down her cheek. “We’ll get through it together. We have so much left to live for, so many pieces of him to carry forward. He’s always with us, a part of and that part never disappears. He would want us to celebrate life and bring him with us.”
I slept in my childhood bedroom that night and I felt a sense of closure.
Visiting home, sharing memories of Dad, and hearing Mom’s plans for living boldly made me happy. She was right. She was always right. Wherever our lives went, we’d carry him with us. Finally, I drifted off to sleep with a promise to chase my own happiness.