"I'm going to leave you here," the daughter threatened, but she was grinning.
"You'd never survive without me."
"Debatable."
Watching them, something stirred in my memory. A rare afternoon when I was maybe eight or nine, when Mom had been having one of her good days. We'd been at a discount store, and she'd found a clearance bin full of silly hats—oversized sombreros, feathered fascinators, a plastic Viking helmet. She'd put one on her head, then one on mine, and we'd paraded through the store making each other laugh until our sides hurt.
"We look ridiculous," I'd said, catching our reflection in a mirror.
"We look magnificent," she'd corrected, striking a pose. "Never apologize for bringing joy, Bernadette. Even if it's weird joy."
When Ginger was happy—truly happy, not performing happiness to convince herself or me that everything was fine—she'd been a blast to be around. Quick-witted, playful, unafraid of looking foolish if it meant making someone smile. Those moments had been rare, especially toward the end, but they were memorable.
I'd spent so many years focusing on what she couldn't give me. The stability. The father. But standing here watching this mother-daughter duo from Nashville, I realized my mother had given me what she could with the broken pieces she'd been holding.
She'd done her best.
That thought settled over me like a warm blanket, unexpected and comforting. My mother had carried her own heartache, her own secrets, her own battles with depression and anxiety that I'd been too young to fully understand. She'd been dealing with mental health issues in an era when admitting them felt like failure, when asking for help seemed like weakness.
And still, she'd loved me. Imperfectly, inconsistently, but genuinely.
At Woodford Reserve, the Nashville mother got her flask confiscated by a security guard, and her daughter's laughter rang out across the parking lot. "I told you that would happen!"
"Worth it," the mother declared, utterly unrepentant.
I smiled, and as I did, I felt something shift inside my chest. Something heavy that I'd been carrying for months—maybe years—seemed to loosen its grip. The resentment I'd been harboring toward my mother, the anger at her for not giving me a complete picture of where I came from, the frustration at her silence about my father.
It was leaving.
Not disappearing entirely, but transforming into something softer. Understanding, maybe. Or acceptance. The recognition that she'd been human, flawed, doing what she thought was right with limited resources and overwhelming pain.
She'd protected me in the only way she knew how—by keeping silent about a man who hadn't wanted to be found, rather than letting me grow up knowing I'd been rejected before I could walk.
As the tour continued, I found myself standing a little straighter. The weight I'd been carrying felt lighter, and though I couldn't say I'd forgiven her completely—forgiveness felt like too big a word for something so complicated—I'd stopped blaming her.
December 8, Monday
non-chill filtereda method that preserves oils and esters for a richer flavor and mouthfeel
THE SPACEheater hummed in the corner of my van, doing its best. I sat cross-legged on my cot, surrounded by manila folders and loose papers that needed organizing before I could even think about packing up for good.
My phone sat on the mattress beside me, its scanner app open. I picked up the letter from the community college and smoothed out the creases before positioning it under my phone's camera.
Dear Ms. Waters,
We are pleased to inform you that your application for readmission has been accepted. Furthermore, due to a recently awarded educational equity grant, you are eligible to complete your remaining coursework at no tuition cost...
The words blurred slightly as I saved the document. Finishing my degree. The thought sent a flutter of something through my chest—excitement, maybe, or relief. A concrete plan for my future that didn't involve living in a van or searching for ghosts.
But underneath that anticipation lurked a question I didn't want to examine too closely: Was I genuinely excited about going back to school? Or was I just grateful to have a reason to leave Kentucky that didn't feel like surrender?
I filed the letter in my digital "Important Documents" folder and reached for the next item in my organizational pile. My fingers closed around a thicker folder, and I felt my stomach sink even before I registered what it was.
The facial DNA analysis report. The test that had convinced me Boyd Biggs might be my father, setting off the chain of events that had nearly destroyed my relationship with Dylan and caused chaos for his entire family.
I should throw it away. Shred it. Burn it, even.
Instead, I opened the folder.
