“Couple hundred thousand pounds a year. Small fleet—three boats. My wife runs fulfillment.”
Wesley’s mom smiles. “Someone has to answer the emails.”
“I’d be lost without her,” Tom admits. “She’s the brains. I’m just the guy on the boat.”
“That’s not true,” she says. “He built this. Boat to business. I just keep the lights on.”
Julian leans forward, interested. “That’s impressive. Vertical integration at that scale, it’s not easy.”
“No,” Tom agrees. “It’s been good for our family.”
Mother listens, and I see her recalibrating. This isn’t the image she had. Tom Kane isn’t some grizzled fisherman scraping by. He’s a businessman. Self-made, yes, but successful.
The conversation shifts—Lila mentions Giselle, Wesley’s mom admits she’s never seen ballet, Lila offers tickets. Mother asks about Alaska, and Wesley’s mom tells a story about abear in their backyard getting into the salmon cooler that has everyone laughing.
The ice breaks. Not completely, but enough.
Then Mother does something that stops my heart.
She folds her napkin, sets it down, and looks at me. “How was class, Josephine?”
I inhale to answer, but she pauses. Her eyes meet mine, and her expression shifts, softness cracking the porcelain.
“—Joy,” she corrects herself, deliberate and clear. “How was class, Joy?”
The room tilts. Heat floods my chest. Under the table, Wesley’s hand tightens around mine, and I know he heard it too. Knows what it cost her. What it means to me.
“Good,” I manage, voice thick. “We’re getting ready for the end-of-year recital. The girls voted for glitter, I countered with sequins, so we compromised and used both. Democracy in motion.”
Mother’s mouth twitches, almost a laugh. “And this performance is where?”
“Hunter College Theater. The Harlem studio does its spring showcase there every May. It’s chaos, but the good kind.”
“I’d like to come.” She says it simply, like it’s obvious. “If you’ll have me.”
My throat closes. “You want to come to the recital?”
“I want to see your girls.” Her gaze holds steady. “What you’re doing matters, Joy. I should have said that sooner.”
Tears sting. I blink them back and nod. Under the table, Wesley’s thumb strokes over the bracelet on my wrist, slow and certain, like he knew this was always the ending.
Across the table, Anne is dabbing her eyes with her napkin. Tom looks uncomfortable but not unkind. Wesley’s thumb traces circles on my knee.
Uncle Julian lifts his glass. “To family. And to Joy, who somehow wrangled both a Kane and a Preston showcase in the same season. We’re all very proud.”
“To Joy,” everyone echoes.
Glass taps glass. Mother’s eyes hold mine, warm and certain. Wesley’s grip tightens. His mom beams through tears. Tom nods once, gruff but approving.
We made it.
Food disappears. Conversation flows easier now—Uncle Julian and Tom talk fishing regulations, Mother and Anne discover a shared love of mystery novels, Lila makes everyone laugh with a story about a disastrous rehearsal.
Then Father stands, stretching. “Tom, can I show you the study? I’ve got a bottle of Scotch that’s older than both our kids.”
Tom’s eyes light up. “Now you’re talking.”
They disappear down the hall. Wesley watches them go, tension radiating off him.
