Chapter 22 #2
"Mom." She set down the silk blouse she'd been folding and turned to face Daisy fully. "In my entire life, how many times have you put my needs before yours? How many times have you sacrificed something you wanted so I could have something I needed?"
Daisy bit her lip, but couldn't come up with an answer.
"That's what I thought." She sat down on the edge of the armchair, suddenly tired.
"I'm not saying you're a bad person. I know you love me in your way.
But you've spent your whole life chasing whatever shiny thing caught your attention, and you've always expected me to be there when the glitter faded. I can't do it anymore."
Tears were sliding down Daisy's cheeks now—real ones, Marigold thought, not the performed kind. Her mother's makeup was starting to smear, something she would never allow if this were a calculated performance.
"I never meant to hurt you," Daisy whispered.
"I know." And she did know. That was the complicated, exhausting truth of it. Her mother wasn't actually cruel. She was simply incapable of seeing beyond her own wants and needs, of understanding that other people existed as fully realized beings with their own desires and dreams.
"I just thought—we could do something together. Mother and daughter." Daisy's voice was small. "I thought you'd be excited."
"About selling everything I've worked for to fund another one of your projects?" She shook her head. "Mother, when has that ever ended well? The art gallery in Santa Fe. The vintage clothing boutique in Austin. The bed and breakfast in Vermont. What happened to all of them?"
Daisy looked away.
"They failed," she said quietly. "Because you got bored, or met someone new, or found a different shiny thing to chase. And every time, you walked away without looking back, leaving someone else to deal with the mess."
"That's not entirely—"
"It's exactly what happened. And I'm not going to let it happen to me again." She took a deep breath. "This shop is mine. This town is mine. This life is mine. I'm not giving it up."
Silence fell again, but it was different this time. Less charged. More… settled. As if some invisible barrier between them had finally been acknowledged, bringing a strange kind of peace.
Daisy wiped at her smeared mascara with the back of her hand. "When did you become so… forceful?"
"I don't know. Recently." She thought of Thallos—his steady presence, his unwavering certainty, the way he looked at her like she was worth defending. "Someone helped me realize I was allowed to want things for myself."
"That satyr?"
"His name is Thallos."
"Yes, him." Daisy sniffed delicately. "He seems… intense."
"He is." A smile tugged at her lips. "He's also kind, and funny, and he thinks I'm extraordinary. Not because of what I can do for him, but just… because."
Daisy studied her for a long moment. "You really care about him."
"I do."
"More than you've cared about anyone else?"
The question surprised her with its perceptiveness. Her mother wasn't usually observant about other people's feelings.
"Yes," she admitted. "More than anyone."
Daisy nodded slowly, something like acceptance settling over her features. "I suppose I understand that. The way you feel about him—that's how I've felt about every one of my husbands. At least at the beginning."
"This isn't like that."
"How do you know?"
It was a fair question. And for a moment, she felt the old fear stirring—the fear of following in her mother's footsteps, of mistaking infatuation for love, of waking up one day to find that the certainty had faded into boredom.
But then she thought about last night. About waking up in his arms that morning. About the way he'd looked at her when she'd said she wasn't ready to say she loved him—not disappointed, not frustrated, just… patient. Certain. Willing to wait.
"Because he's not asking me to change," she said finally. "He's not expecting me to give up my shop, or move somewhere else, or become a different person. He likes who I am. All of it. Even the parts I've always been ashamed of."
Daisy was quiet for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, she smiled. It was a wry, self-aware expression that Marigold had rarely seen on her mother's face.
"I'm not very good at that, am I? Liking people as they are."
"No," she said honestly. "You're not."
"I always think I can see what they could be. If they just tried a little harder, reached a little further…" Daisy sighed. "I suppose I've done that with you too."
"You have."
"I'm sorry."
The words landed like a small earthquake. She couldn't remember the last time her mother had apologized—really apologized, without qualifications or excuses.
"You—" She swallowed hard. "Thank you."
Daisy shrugged, looking almost embarrassed. "I'm not going to pretend I'll suddenly become a different person. I'm fifty-three years old, Marigold. This is who I am. But I can… try. To see you more clearly. To let you be who you want to be, even if it's not who I would have chosen."
It wasn't a grand reconciliation. It wasn't a promise that everything would be different from now on. But it was something—a crack in the wall that had always stood between them. A beginning.
"I'd like that," she said softly.
They sat in silence for a moment, the morning light shifting across the room. Downstairs, someone opened the door to the shop—probably her part-time assistant, coming in to water the plants.
"I suppose the retreat is off the table, then," Daisy said eventually.
"It was never on the table."
"A girl can dream." But there was no real disappointment in her voice. If anything, she sounded almost relieved, as if being told no had freed her from an obligation she hadn't entirely wanted in the first place.
"What will you do instead?"
Daisy considered the question. "I don't know. Go back to Chicago, probably. There's a man there—lovely man, very attentive—who's been asking me to dinner. Maybe I'll finally say yes."
"That sounds like a better plan than a spiritual retreat in Sedona."
"Perhaps." Daisy rose from the sofa, stretching elegantly. "Though I do think I'd look rather fetching in flowing robes, communing with crystals."
She laughed despite herself. "You would. But you'd get bored within a week."
"Probably." Her mother smiled—a genuine smile this time, warm and rueful. "I'm not built for consistency, darling. Never have been."
"I know."
"But you are." Daisy crossed to her and, surprisingly, reached out to touch her cheek. "You've always been the steady one. The one who holds things together. I should have appreciated that more instead of always trying to drag you into my chaos."
"You're making up for it now."
"Am I?"
"A little." Marigold caught her mother's hand and squeezed it briefly. "Keep working on it."
Daisy laughed—a real laugh, bright and unguarded. "I'll try. No promises, but I'll try."
It was, Marigold thought, probably the best she was ever going to get. And somehow, that was okay.
"When are you leaving?" she asked.
"Would… would it be okay if I stayed until the festival?"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. I'd like to see your dance. I'm sure it will be wonderful."
The statement was accompanied by her mother's bright, charming smile. Marigold knew better than anyone that it was probably an act, but she was willing to take it.
"Thanks, Mom. You can stay here. I'll stay with Thallos."
Daisy glanced around the apartment. "And I should probably help clean up the mess I made. What do you do with wine glasses? Is there a particular place they go?"
"In the cabinet above the sink."
"Fascinating."
They spent the next hour tidying up together—Daisy mostly watching while she did the actual work, but occasionally making helpful observations like "I think that shirt goes on a hanger" and "Is coffee supposed to be that color?" It was strangely companionable. Almost normal.
By the time the apartment was back in order, the tension had fully dissipated. They weren't exactly at peace—there was too much history for that—but they'd reached some kind of understanding. An acknowledgment of their differences and a tentative agreement to respect them.
"I am proud of you," Daisy said quietly when Marigold was about to leave. "I know I don't show it well. But what you've built here—the shop, the life, even that rather alarming satyr—it's impressive. You've made something real. Something that's entirely yours."
Her throat tightened. "Thank you."
"Your father would have been proud too. He always knew you were special."
The mention of her father made her flinch. She didn't remember him well because he'd died when she was six in a car accident on a rainy night. But she remembered his smile, his laugh, the way he'd called her "sweetheart."
"I wish he'd gotten to see it," she managed.
"So do I." Daisy reached out and pulled her into a hug—brief, awkward, smelling of expensive perfume. "Take care of yourself, Marigold. And take care of that satyr. He seems like the type who needs looking after."
She laughed against her mother's shoulder. "I think he might disagree with that assessment."
"Men always do. They're wrong." Daisy pulled back, her eyes suspiciously bright. "I love you, darling. Even when I'm terrible at showing it."
"I love you too, Mom."
As she walked down the stairs, she thought about calling Thallos and telling him what had happened. But something stopped her. This moment felt sacred somehow. Private. A victory she needed to savor on her own before sharing it with anyone else.
Instead, she walked out onto Main Street. The morning had brightened into a beautiful summer day. People walked past the shop, some pausing to admire the window displays. The vines Thallos had enchanted swayed gently in the breeze, their white flowers catching the light.
*This is mine,* she thought. *All of it. The shop, the town, the life I'm building. Mine.*
And for the first time in as long as she could remember, she didn't feel guilty about it.
She didn't feel the need to apologize, to minimize, to make herself small. She was allowed to have things. She was allowed to want things. She was allowed to be happy.
The realization settled into her bones like warmth on a cold day. She was going to be okay. No—more than okay. She was going to be wonderful.
A smile spread across her face, bright and unguarded. Then she set off down the street. She had a satyr to find.
He was waiting for her. He would always be waiting for her.
And she was finally, truly ready to be found.