“They don’t notice dust,” I say as carefully as possible.
I don’t want to insult Mrs. Darling, but dust was the least of Mom’s problems. They’re far more concerned about makingsure everyone has enough to eat and that the laughter doesn’t stop flowing than about something being out of place.
“Also, Dad drives like a Formula One Racer.”
“Meaning they’re more likely to get here in forty-five minutes?”
I click my tongue. “You got it. So don’t worry about any of this. Just take care of what you need to.”
She scurries upstairs and doesn’t return until the doorbell rings.
I pause, letting her join me when I’d usually just holler for the Turleys to come in. Swinging the door open, my mother clobbers me with a hug as if she hasn’t seen me in years. Then she spots Bree. Gripping my arms, she steadies herself, and her mouth parts with knowing before she hugs my wife like they’re long-lost relatives.
Dad slaps me on the back, eyes my healing jaw, and says, “Tough break, son.”
When I originally told them about the injury, while on the phone, in the background, my father suggested duct tape to fix it.
My brothers—Bradley and Graham—immediately swarm Bree, introducing Jen and Stacy. The kids run circles around the dog, who still doesn’t have a name.
“What do you call him?” Rowan, my nephew, scratches the dog’s ears.
“We’re still deciding,” Bree says.
“How about Elfie?” Violet, my niece, suggests.
“Ebenezer?” Bradley says.
“Tiny Tim,” Graham offers with a grin.
Bree laughs easily and fits in perfectly, answering Mom’s questions about how we met (sticking to our story about meeting in college and reconnecting recently), complimenting Dad’s Minnesota Vikings cap, and getting down on thefloor to play with my niece and nephews despite her belted cranberry sweater dress.
Something toasty warm spreads through my chest. She’s good at pretending, but maybe she’s embodying one of her characters.
That thought is more unsettling than it should be.
“This is a wonderful and unexpected surprise,” Mom says breathily, like she can’t quite believe it. Then again, it’s me we’re talking about.
I once called her from the airplane before I went skydiving, sent her a postcard during an impromptu trip to Thailand, and had a courier deliver concert tickets to see the reunion tour of their favorite band—it was supposed to be anonymous, but she figured it out.
Mom makes herself at home in the kitchen, preparing more coffee and snacks for everyone—her way of processing the fact that the only remaining single son in the family has a … Bree.
“It’s not technically a surprise since you called this morning.”
She tilts her head toward my wife. “It’s that you met someone.”
This would be the moment that I come clean and explain the situation.
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
Actually, this would be the one to reveal that we’re married.
My mother, looking exuberantly thoughtful, says, “They don’t tell you this when you’re learning how to change diapers, but a mom seeing her children grown up and in happy, healthy relationships is a great joy. I cannot wait for your wedding day. But we need to make sure it doesn’t conflict with Graham and Stacy’s wedding.”
No, the time to reveal the truth would be now.
“About that.” I clear my throat. I’ve done many things toland myself with a lump of coal, but lying to my mother isn’t one of them.
“Actually, we are married.”
