CHAPTER ONE
ALLIE
“You look rough,” I tell my mom, while staring at her from across the breakfast table. Her complexion has a greyish pallor, and her hair is practically standing on end. Her blue eyes are hooded in a way that suggests she barely slept.
“I feel rough,” she grumbles into her ancient coffee mug—the one we bought at Disneyland when I was six. Mickey Mouse has lost all color from a thousand trips through the dishwasher and now looks more like a ghost than a beloved childhoodicon.
Long moments pass and when it doesn’t appear she’s going to elaborate, I ask, “Nightmares? Hot flashes? Worrying about organizing this year’s Christmas Bazaar at the church?”
While the source of her angst could easily be any of those things, it could also be rooted in global warming, the uptick in earthquakes across the planet, or the current hurricane season—the one that doesn’t affect us in the slightest, living in Wisconsin as we do. Of course, her heirloom tomatoes might also be the culprit. They didn’t ripen before the weather started to turn cold and she’s taking it as a slight of the highest order.
My mother glares at me like I just mowed down herhydrangea bushes—a crime I accidentally committed in the eighth grade. It doesn’t matter that they grew bigger and stronger the next year, I have never been forgiven.
Her gaze suddenly softens in that way that makes me feel like an orphaned Victorian child in line for a crust of bread to stave off my imminent demise. “I’m worried about you,” she says. “I’m afraid you’ll never find someone to share your life with.”
Super,we’re back to my mother’s favorite subject—my lack of a love life. “I thought I had found someone when I married Brett.”
“Brett!” she hisses like I pledged my undying love to Satan himself, not that that wouldn’t be an accurate description. “What a sorry excuse for a human being. What a waste ofoxygen …”
It’s not that I don’t agree with her, but I’ve finally reached the point where I’m tired of complaining about things I can’t change. After three miscarriages, my husband left me in search of a more reliable incubator to carry on his line.
Interrupting my mom’s rant, I tell her, “Yes, but karma came calling for Brett. Think of the fun we’ll have stalking his social media in the coming years.”
She doesn’t look convinced. “That man should be tarred and feathered before being hung.” She embellishes this to include, “Just enough to break his neck, not kill him. Then he should be cut down before being drawn and quartered.”
My mother’s ability to conjure a horrible end for my ex has greatly increased since she binge-watchedGame of Thronesover the summer. Before she can add beheading and dangling his amputated body parts on pikes to feed the vultures, I remind her, “His new wife recently gave birth to quadruplets.” Which, in my book, is better revenge than any archaic torture.
I watch as her eyes narrow deviously, and her head bobs up and down. “Thatispretty satisfying.” A slow but sure smirk starts to form asshe appears to be mentallyitemizing the coming trials and tribulations in store for Brett and the woman he cheated on me with. “Four screaming infants, four dirty butts to clean, four babies waking up at various times in the night to eat, four middleschoolers, four collegetuitions …”The whole time she’s reciting, she smiles like she just won a billion dollars in the lottery.
“Feeling better?” I needlessly inquire.
Her shoulders square and her necklengthensconsiderably until she looks like a superhero about to take flight. “I really am.” But instead of taking time to enjoy Brett’s new predicament—or “blessings,” as his mother is calling them on her Facebook page—my mom can’t help herself from wondering, “But what aboutyou?”
“What about me, Mom? I’m fine. I have a good job at the bakery, and I’m making enough money to survive. I’m okay.”
“You’re not okay,” she challenges. “You’re still sleeping in your childhood bedroom, and now that Lorelai lives in Chicago, you barely even socialize.”
I’m not about to confess to how much I miss my childhood bestie, or my mom will push me to follow her to the Windy City. After living with Brett in Madison for several years, I’m done with big cities. For now, there’s nothing quite like my hometown to soothe theangst—thatI possess but will never confess to—about my coming years.
“I’m doing great, Mom. I promise I won’t live with you forever, and I’ll make plans with Faith soon.” Faith is my boss and owner of Rosemary’s Bakery where I work. She’s also married to a movie star—Ican’t make this stuff up. If that isn’t amazing enough, she’s mother to the most adorable twin girls I’ve ever met. Which, come to think of it, might be why I don’t see her outside of work. I would give my left foot to have children like hers, and I’m still mourning my ability to do so.
“Faithhasa life,” my mother reminds me. “What you need is to meet some single women in the same predicament you are, so you can go out andsocialize.” The emphasis on the last word translates into “stalkingunsuspectingprey.”
While I don’t see being single as a predicament, there’s no use continuing to beat that drum with my mother. She’s made it clear she can’t hear it. “Wouldn’t single women be competitionfor any single men I might meet?” I ask. I have no intention of going out of my way to meetanymen—let alone unattached ones—but again, I know sharing that sentiment won’t do me any good.
My mom’s eyes bug out like I’ve finally made a decent point. “You knowwhat? You’reright!” That confession will probably cost her another three nights of sleep. “You are better off with your married friends. Surely, their husbands know some men they can set you up with.”
“Mom …”I push away the plate of half-eaten scrambled eggs which no longer holds any appeal for me. “Please leave me alone.Please.I cannot handle your pity when the truth is that I’m better off without Brett.” It feels necessary to add, “How horrible would it be if I had found out who he really was after having a family with him?”
She ponders my question intently, but just when I think she might finally agree with me, she suggests, “He might have been a loyal and loving husband and father had you not lost those babies.”
I know my mom isn’t trying to hurt me. I know she loves me. Yet I can’t help but feel she’s blaming me. “I didn’t lose them on purpose, Mom. It just happened.” As much as I try to stop them, my eyes begin to water with unshed tears.
My mother jumps up from her chair and hurries across the table to my side. Enveloping me in her ancient chenille robe, she holds me tight and sobs right along with me. “Allie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to cause you pain. Ijust … I just …”
Couldn’t help yourself? Felt the need to twist the dagger still firmly embedded in my heart?“I know you want the best for me, Mom. But you have to let me live my own life. You got to live yours and now it’s my turn.” I wipe my runny nose on her shoulder in payment for making me cry.
Instead of agreeing that I should be the captain of my own ship, my mother laments, “I always thought your life would turn out like one of those delightfulromcomsfrom the nineteennineties. You know, single girl meets the love of her life in a quirky, yet totally believableway …”
