Mom shakes her head and blinks fast. “Yes? Okay how?”
“Is he nice to you?”
A knowing look passes over her face and she sits back in her chair. “Jake.”
“If he’s not, sell the farm and come live with me. Or I’ll come back here and help you. You don’t have to live with him.”
“That’s very sweet, but Art’s a good man.”
“He’s trying to steal the farm from you!” I object.
Mom’s head lolls back on her neck and she heaves a sigh. “Honey, he does half the work. He’s not stealing anything.”
“But he’s not nice to you,” I argue.
“Jake, you’re not nice to him.”
“Because of how he treats you!”
I’ve seen this face on my mom: trying not to get mad. “I’m about to be very honest with you,” she starts, and my stomach drops again. “I know he’s not your dad. You know that. But when you moved back here, I think you were still grieving your dad and you didn’t really give Art a fair chance.”
My mouth pops open. “What?”
“Art doesn’t hate you. But it made it tense that you two didn’t get along. He and I fought more.”
“Oh, so everything’s my fault?” I ask, shoving back my plate. “Mom, can’t you see that he’s hurting you? He shouldn’t be fighting with you so much.”
“We don’t fight like that now.” Her hand lands over mine. “And I’m not saying it was your fault. I’m saying it was a tough situation. It was hard for you to see me moving on. It was hard to have you back when I’d had four years to process everything in this old house. He was everywhere for me, Jake. Still is. But now it hurts less.”
My throat feels tight and I wish Darcy could be here to see all this. I crave her comfort so much right now. “I miss him.”
She flattens her lips. “I do too. I always will.”
I nod, but I can’t look her in the eye. I feel her gaze nonetheless. A beat of silence passes between us.
She pats my hand. “I thought you’d be happier that you got your robot running.”
My breathing falters and I have to suck a breath into my oxygen-starved lungs. It comes out all shaky and choppy.
“It’s for you,” I admit. “So you wouldn’t need him.”
“Oh, baby,” she says in that voice she used when I was sad as a kid. “You don’t need to take care of me.”
“I do,” I say, choking up. “Dad’s gone.”
“Jake, look at me.” She covers my hand again, and I notice the veins and sunspots starting to take hold. My mom’s turning fifty soon, and still beautiful. But it’s strange to see these more obvious signs that time is passing. “I need you to get out there and live your life. Figure out what you want for you. If you want the farm, I’ll save it for you as best I can. But I need you to fly the coop. Your dad and I wanted you kids to get to do what made you happy.”
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Whoever ‘everyone’ is is probably right.” Mom’s smile is sad. “You’ve spent your life trying to make everybody else happy. You’re such a natural caretaker. When you didn’t become a doctor, I was shocked you didn’t pick vet.”
I laugh. “I might love animals a little too much. It’s hard for me to see them hurt. I’d never sleep.”
Mom puffs out her bottom lip. “I love your big heart.” She taps the table. “How’s your girlfriend?”
I stare at the spot where the linoleum’s chipped by the wood cabinets, remembering sitting there as a kid with a screwdriver, trying to peel it up and put it back down. “She wants me to figure out what I want. For me.”
Mom snorts. “Common theme. Have you figured it out yet?”
