Chapter 32 #3
I thought about Brett's pathetic phone call, his sobbing desperation to come home for the weekend, and his complete inability to understand why eighteen months of betrayal couldn't be forgiven through therapeutic language and tears.
But Kimberly didn't need to carry that burden.
She'd already dealt with enough of her father's manipulation attempts, and she deserved to focus on her own life instead of managing his emotional chaos.
I told her about the Vermont retreat center proposal instead, about partnership opportunities with Robin and Amy, and about the chance to build programs that would help women develop skills for rebuilding their lives instead of just surviving the destruction of their old ones.
"This sounds ideal for you," she said finally, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand with fingers that were stronger than I remembered from her last visit home.
"Like work that combines everything you're good at with everything you care about.
Plus, working with Robin and Amy means you'll have partners who understand what you're trying to accomplish. "
"It would mean traveling to Vermont regularly, probably spending weekends there once the programs are running," I said, wanting her to understand that my new business would require time and attention that might affect our family logistics.
"Not every weekend, but enough that you'd need to plan around my schedule instead of assuming I'm always available. "
Kimberly smiled with something that looked like pride rather than concern about her mother's increasing independence. "Mom, I'm twenty-one years old. I think I can manage my own schedule without requiring constant supervision."
We talked about retreat programming and business development until almost ten o'clock, when Kimberly announced she was exhausted from the drive home and ready for sleep which wasn't interrupted by her roommate's boyfriend calling at two in the morning to discuss their relationship problems.
"I'm going to bed," she said, standing up. "But Mom? I think this Emilio guy is really good for you."
Her comment surprised me because I hadn't mentioned Emilio specifically during our conversation about the Vermont opportunity, just that a business contact had connected me with Josh Neely and the retreat center that needed programming development.
"What makes you say that?" I asked, attempting to sound cool despite the fact that my cheeks were probably turning red in ways that would give away whatever I was feeling about someone I'd been trying not to discuss with my children.
"You get different when you talk about him," Kimberly said, settling back into her chair with the look of someone who was about to deliver observations her mother might not be ready to hear.
"More excited, somehow. Like someone interested in something besides just managing everyone else's problems."
I could feel heat spreading across my face in ways that confirmed whatever Kimberly had noticed about my reaction to conversations that involved Emilio. My daughter could see the attraction I'd been trying to keep private until I figured out what it meant and whether I was ready to act on it.
"We're just friends," I said, which was technically true but felt like an incomplete description of whatever was developing between someone who owned hotels in multiple countries and someone who was just learning to trust her own instincts about men again.
"Right," Kimberly gave me the look she always used when she was playing along but clearly didn’t buy a word of it. "Just friends who make you blush when someone mentions their name, and propose business opportunities that happen to require regular collaboration on projects you're passionate about."
She stood to head upstairs this time, but paused in the kitchen doorway to look back at me with eyes that held more wisdom than I'd possessed at her age.
"For what it's worth," she said, "I think you deserve someone who makes you excited about possibilities instead of just grateful for the absence of obvious problems. And from what I can tell, this guy seems to understand that."
I remained in my kitchen thinking about attraction and timing and whether my daughter was more perceptive about my emotional life than I was ready to admit.
Emilio did make me excited about possibilities, both professional and personal.
He treated my divorce like information rather than a scandal, my platform like achievement rather than therapy, and my opinions like contributions rather than complications that required patient management.
Maybe that was what healthy attraction looked like when you were fifty-two and finally learning to trust your own instincts about what you deserved from people who claimed to care about you.
Not the desperate need to be rescued from loneliness, but recognition of someone who appreciated what you had to offer instead of just tolerating your presence in their life.
I was definitely not ready to admit that to my daughter, but I was starting to admit it to myself.