"She's asleep. I was, uh, reading to her."
"A sex scene?" she asks emotionlessly, walking back toward the waiting room. I follow her, cringing at those last two words coming from my mother's mouth. I nod anyway, and so does she. "When we were teenagers and would sneak erotic novels from the library, she used to tabthose scenes to reread at night. It's a mystery how that woman lands so many men without falling asleep underneath them."
A laugh bursts from my throat and catches both of us completely off guard. "Sorry," I say, covering my mouth with my palm. "It's just—this is somehow the most normal, yet most ridiculous, conversation we've ever had."
Mom's face falls, humor slipping from her eyes as she slinks into an empty chair. I follow her lead, taking the seat next to it, but she doesn't look over. Instead, she picks at the frayed corner of the blue cushion overtop of the armrest.
"I didn't mean anything by that, Mom. I just… you know. We aren't exactly the Gilmore girls."
She lets out a deep breath like she's been holding it for years and finally turns to me. "You know, I've never admitted it out loud," she says. "But I was always jealous of Ivy."
I blink at her, caught completely off guard. She sees my confusion and gives me a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
"I was," she says again. "She's carefree and open-minded. The fun one. Always dancing through life like there's nothing holding her back—like gravity doesn't apply to her like it does the rest of us. She doesn't care about jumping in lakes fully clothed or catching rides with strangers because their car smells like wildflowers. There are no risks with her. No hesitations. Ivy's the one who will hop on a boat and chase the horizon, and I'm the one standing on the shore charting riptides and undertows."
A laugh seeps through my lips as I picture the scene. "She sure is something, isn't she?"
Mom chuckles too, but there's no weight to it. "You're a lot like her," she says.
I frown. "Me? No way."
"You are," she insists. "Deep down. You have more Ivy in you than you do me, that's for sure. And, Brooke, that's always scared the hell out of me."
"Really?" I ask, surprised.
"Yes. Why do you think I've been so hard on you? So desperate for you to choose something—someone—anything that meant youwere anchored. Ivy's life, it looks beautiful, but there's a darkness to that kind of freedom. It's lonely. Dangerous. I never know where she is or when I'll hear from her. I mean, look at yesterday. If she hadn't collapsed on our doorstep, would I have even heard about it? Would anyone?"
For a moment, I stiffen, ready to jump to my aunt's defense. Of course she would have heard. But then I think of how I can't even be sure her number's still the same each time she reaches out. "I guess I never thought of it like that before."
"I know I've pushed you to settle down…"
I throw her a side-eye that I temper with a grin.
"Relentlessly," she adds. "I'm sure it's felt like I'm trying to steer you inmydirection, and I know it's come between us. But I think, selfishly, I couldn't take worrying about someone else that I love in the same way that I worry about her. I don't know if I could have done it again."
"But Ivy's always been fine, Mom. I don't think I've ever seen her sweat—unless she was talking about the guy from Morocco with the two Pomeranians."
That earns a smile, but it's fleeting. "She performs well, but I see her. The looks she gives you and your brother when she comes around—like she's trying to memorize each moment before she disappears again. She wears armor, but Ivy's not wandering, Brooke. She's running. She clings to her sovereignty like it's her shield, but is she independent? Or is she alone?"
My jaw grows tight as I fight the burning rising in my chest. It's a sadness I didn't expect. For Aunt Ivy. For Mom. For me—for the fact that I could ask myself those same questions. She gives me the space to connect the dots and smiles softly when I do. "I always just thought you were disappointed in me."
Mom's eyes fall shut as she exhales. When she opens them, they're heavy and wet. "I was never disappointed in you, Brooke. I was scared. And fear builds walls nearly impossible to tear down—made of control and opinions." She blows out a shaky breath as her lower lip begins to quiver. "I'm so sorry that you've felt that way. That I let my worries show through as anything but love. I just… I don't want you to be alone, Brooke. I don't want you to run from life and relationships and genuine connections. I don't want commitment to be scary. I want you to put down roots and enjoy it—flourish."
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes as Mom drops her hand into mine and squeezes gently, wiping away the dampness on her cheek. For the first time, I see her not as my hypercritical mother, but as a person. A woman. A sister. Someone who has been holding on to too much for too long—masking her own fears as something more tolerable.
And, for the first time, I see myself through her eyes, too.
"I've been seeing Drew Anderson," I blurt out.
Mom sniffles, then sits up straighter as if she's contemplating how to respond. "He's the hockey player Blake was talking about, right?"
"Yeah," I admit. I wait for her judgment—a look, an eye roll—but nothing comes.
"So, that explains the escape," she finally says.
I smile awkwardly. "We met last year, before the Flames job started. He's younger than me, and we're so different. But actually… so alike."
"What did he say when you talked to him?"
