Chapter 26
MAX
Dinner at Mom’s
The scent hits me first—garlic, rosemary, something tomato-based bubbling low and slow on the stove. It smells like home. Like my childhood. Like the one woman who never let me drift too far from myself, no matter how far I ran.
I glance sideways at Nora as we climb the stairs. She’s wearing a soft navy dress and flats, her curls tucked behind one ear, eyes wide with something between excitement and terror.
“You okay?” I murmur as we reach the landing.
She gives me a tight smile. “I’m about to meet the woman who raised you. What if she hates me?”
“She’s going to love you,” I say without hesitation. “Honestly, I’m more worried about her liking you too much. She’s been dropping not-so-subtle hints about grandbabies for years.”
Nora lets out a nervous laugh, cheeks flushing. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m being honest,” I grin, and knock.
The door swings open before my knuckles even touch the wood again.
And there she is—my mom. Petite, fierce-eyed, and wearing the same apron she’s had since I was ten. Her dark hair is streaked with more silver now, but she still has the same fire in her.
“Oh my god,” she breathes, pulling me into a hug that momentarily compresses my lungs. “You look skinny.”
“I’ve been on tour,” I choke out. “And hello to you too.”
She smacks my cheek affectionately, then turns to Nora.
And just like that, the hurricane stills.
Nora stands there, smiling politely, shoulders straight, like she’s bracing for impact. But my mom’s gaze softens. She steps forward slowly, takes both of Nora’s hands in hers.
“You’re even prettier than the photos I saw online,” she says warmly.
Nora laughs, startled by the compliment. “I—I’m not so sure about that…”
I slide an arm around her waist. “This is Nora.”
“And you’re Max’s mom,” Nora replies, her voice a little steadier now. “It’s really nice to meet you. Thank you for having me.”
“Oh, sweetheart, you’re welcome here anytime. Especially if you get him to eat vegetables.”
I roll my eyes. “Mom.”
“Don’t ‘Mom’ me. Now sit down before the lasagna burns.”
As we step inside, barreling toward us in orthopedic slippers and a V-neck sweater that should’ve retired in 1983, is my grandfather.
“Sid, slow down!” my mom calls from the kitchen. “You just had your knee shot up with cortisone!”
He ignores her.
“Is this her?” Grandpa demands, pointing a slightly shaky finger at Nora like he’s identifying a spy.
“This is her,” I confirm with a smile. “Nora, meet my grandfather, Sid Donovan. Sid, this is Nora.”
Sid squints at her. Then takes off his bifocals, polishes them on the bottom hem of his sweater—exposing a very unnecessary inch of pale belly—and puts them back on.
He blinks once.
Then again.
“You’ll do fine,” he declares.
Nora lets out a startled laugh. “Um—thank you?”
He nods solemnly. “Good bone structure. Strong jaw. You’ll keep him in line.”
“I’ll do my best,” she replies, biting her lip to hide a smile.
“I once dated a girl with a jaw like that,” he adds. “Could crack walnuts with her teeth. She tried to enlist in the Navy posing as a man. Damn shame about the sideburns.”
“Okay!” I interrupt, putting a hand on Grandpa’s shoulder and steering him gently toward the living room. “Let’s keep the walnut stories for after appetizers, yeah?”
He waves me off. “Just saying—she’s a good match.”
My mom appears just in time with a tray of drinks and a warning glare so sharp I flinch on reflex.
“Sid, let them come in and sit down before you start in with your nonsense.”
We do. Her kitchen table is still the same—dented at one corner, old candle wax stuck to the placemat.
There are photos framed on every surface.
One of me with a bowl cut at eight, holding my first guitar.
One of her and me in front of the old brownstone, arms slung around each other after my first solo show.
Mom pours the wine. Sid squints at the bottle. “Is that wine or prune juice? I can’t risk another episode. The plumbing’s still recovering.”
“Wine, Sid,” I say, trying not to laugh. “Just wine.”
Nora leans toward Grandpa Sid. “Smells amazing, doesn’t it?”
He cups a hand behind his ear. “Hazelnut glazing?” he repeats, genuinely puzzled. “On lasagna?”
“Sid,” I sigh, “why aren’t you wearing the hearing aids I bought you?”
He peers at me over the rims of his bifocals. “I am.”
“You’re not.”
“Yes I am,” he insists, patting the sides of his head.
I narrow my eyes. “Sid, those are just your ears.”
He looks vaguely surprised. Then shrugs. “Ah. That explains why everything’s so muffled.”
Nora lets out a quiet snort, hiding behind her wineglass.
“Seriously,” I say, “these cost me a fortune. You begged for the top-of-the-line ones. Bluetooth! Noise canceling! A ‘party mode,’ whatever the hell that is.”
Sid leans forward with a dramatic squint. “Party mode? Is that what the kids call it now?”
“No, Sid, it’s what you called it when you told the audiologist you wanted to ‘hear the gossip without the jazz.’”
He waves a dismissive hand. “Jazz ruins everything.”
“Come on. Just put them in.”
Sid eyes me like I’m offering to shove a grenade in his ears. “Those things make my ears feel violated. Like two tiny FBI agents whispering state secrets directly into my brain.”
“Sid—”
“I wore them last week,” he says defensively. “Heard your mother fart during a prayer.”
Nora wheezes.
“That’s not a reason not to wear them!” I say.
Sid leans back smugly. “Au contraire. Some sounds are better left to mystery, son.”
I rub my temples. “Just… consider putting them in for dinner. For Nora’s sake.”
He brightens. “Oh, well, I guess I will. Anything for a pretty woman.”
Nora blushes, clearly charmed. “That’s very sweet.”
He grins. “Don’t thank me, doll. Thank evolution. My ears might be seventy-eight, but they still know what’s important.”
“You’re ninety-one, Sid. And if you start talking about prune juice again, I’m putting on the jazz.”
Once Grandpa Sid is settled at the table with his hearing aids in, Mom insists we try her homemade garlic knots and launches into questions like she’s been saving them up all year.
“So Nora, how’d you two meet?”
“At a masquerade gala,” she says, smiling at me. “I didn’t know who he was.”
My mom laughs so hard she snorts. “Oh, that’s perfect. I like you already.”
After that, they slip into an easy rhythm—talking books, cats, and tour life.
I mostly stay quiet, chewing slowly around a knot of emotion I didn’t see coming.
“Tell me,” Nora says sweetly, digging into her food. “You used to work in the army, Mr. Donovan?”
Grandpa Sid perks up. “Damn straight. Radio operator. Also once punched a Nazi in the throat.”
Nora’s eyes go wide. “Oh! Wow.”
“His name was Gerald. Bastard stole my cigarette lighter.”
Mom doesn’t flinch. Just passes the bread basket like this is all perfectly normal. Which, to be fair, it is. For us.
“You know,” Grandpa Sid continues, peering at Nora over his wine glass, “you’ve got good birthing hips. Strong calves. Irish?”
Nora chokes on her sip of water. I reach out instinctively, patting her back while trying not to die of secondhand embarrassment.
“She’s, uh, mostly German and Scottish,” I mutter.
He nods, dead serious. “Excellent breeding. She’ll bear you twins.”
“Okay!” I clap my hands, hoping to derail this train before it careens into complete madness. “So, Grandpa, how’s that crossword book I sent you?”
He squints at me. “Full of filth. One clue said ‘bodily fluid.’ I wrote in ‘whiskey.’”
“You’re not wrong,” I mumble.
Nora’s still blushing, but now she’s laughing—shoulders shaking, napkin pressed to her mouth. My mom refills her wine with the practiced ease of a woman who’s raised a rockstar and survived decades of her father’s antics.
She glances between us, then gently steers the conversation. “Nora, tell me about that charity event I heard about—something for the library?”
Nora blinks, then beams. “Oh—yes. We’re hosting a benefit gala in a few days to raise funds for the library. After-school tutoring, literacy workshops, that kind of thing.”
Mom lights up. “That’s wonderful.”
“It’s… a lot of work,” Nora says, but I can hear the warmth under her words. “But worth it. We lost a chunk of our grant funding this year, and the gala’s our best shot at keeping some of those services alive.”
Mom leans in, chin propped on her hand. “And you're organizing it?”
“I am,” Nora says brightly, trying to keep her tone casual. “There are a few of us on the committee. We all pitch in—booking vendors, wrangling volunteers, designing flyers, and everything in between.”
She’s animated now, hands flying as she talks about local authors and how hard it is to get teenagers to show up unless you promise snacks.
My mom soaks it up like sunshine.
“She’s brilliant, you know,” I say—almost without meaning to.
All three look at me. Nora bites her lip. My mom arches an eyebrow. Grandpa huffs.
“She is,” I repeat, meeting Nora’s eyes. “When she talks about the library, it’s like… everything else just fades away.”
Nora shakes her head, clearly trying not to smile. “You’re making me sound like a Disney villain who hoards overdue books.”
“You do,” I say, leaning closer. “But you’d be the hot villain. The one who wears glasses and whispers threats in the stacks.”
My mom snorts into her wine. “Maxwell Donovan.”
Nora is blushing now, but she’s laughing too.
After dessert—Mom’s signature chocolate torte, of course—she stands and starts clearing plates, waving off any offers to help.
“I’m just happy you’re here,” she says. “All of you.”
Later, as Nora and I slip on our shoes and say our goodbyes, she pulls me into another hug and whispers in my ear.
“She’s special, Max. Don’t screw this up.”
“I know,” I whisper back. “I won’t.”