Her smile spreads from ear to ear. I’m not about to tell her that I hit a drive-thru in Nashville before I left the city and downed two breakfast sandwiches and a hashbrown. At Mom’s house, I’m always hungry even when I’m not.
I don’t make the rules. I just live by them.
“Let me fix you a sandwich.” Mom turns toward the refrigerator, gesturing to a basket on the table. “I made some muffins this morning if you want one while you wait.”
“Do you know one of the things I love most about you … besides the fact that I’m your favorite child?” I ask, reaching for a blueberry-dotted piece of heaven. “It’s that you have an appetizer on hand for every occasion.”
“Bacon or sausage for your sandwich?” she asks, poking around the inside of the fridge.
I hum as I consider my choices. “Bacon.”
“Good. I bought a package of applewood smoked bacon at the grocery and I’ve been wanting a reason to fry it. Your dad has been on a sausage kick and I can’t fry bacon just for me. It’s too much work.”
I lean against the counter, peeling the wrapper from my muffin like I’ve done a million times over the past thirty-two years. Despite not having lived here since I left for college at eighteen, it still feels like home. The door is always open for my sisters and me. We could swing by and grocery shop from Mom’s pantry and it would somehow delight her. She gets a thrill when we bring dirty laundry with us.
There’s a sense of peace inside these walls. Growing up, my friends would often comment on it—how our home felt different from everyone else’s. Everyone was welcomed with open arms. Everyone left with a full stomach. As life has gone on, I realize how special it really is to have a home like this to fall back on. My biggest dream, more than any Hall of Fame jackets or podcast numbers, is replicating this.
So far, it’s the only failure to my name.
“Evie got a new boyfriend,” Mom says over the sizzle of the bacon. “Did she tell you?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you think about him?”
I shrug, popping a chunk of muffin into my mouth.Damn, that’s delicious. “I haven’t met him yet, so I don’t know.”If he’s secured Elodie’s approval, he’s probably all right.
“Just based on what she’s told you, what do you think?”
“What doyouthink about him based on what she’s toldyou?” I ask, chuckling.
She looks at me over her shoulder. “I know I get an edited version. I might be getting old, but I’m not naive.”
“I’m not either, which means that I knowIalso get an edited version.”
Her brows pull together. “Why?”
I take another bite of my muffin. “Because Evie knows that if she tells me he steps a toe out of line, that I’m going to show up. Remember Tony Rosedale?”
Mom nods with her back to me. I know she remembers Tony Fucking Rosedale. I also know that Tony Fucking Rosedale remembers me and won’t ever come within ten miles of either of my sisters again.I won’t get within five hundred feet of him either just in case the restraining order is still in effect, but that’s beside the point.
“If you want the truth, you need to ask your daughters. I’d start with Elodie,” I say. “She’s the oldest. Aren’t the oldest children supposed to be the most responsible and honest?”
“Oh, like she’s going to tell me the truth.” Mom snorts. “Those two girls are as thick as thieves.”
“Well, you raised them this way.”
“You’re damn right I did.” She fiddles with the flame on the stove, turning it down as the bacon starts to pop. “I told Evie to bring him for dinner next Sunday. Maybe we can figure him out together.”
I swallow and toss the wrapper in the trash. “Sounds good.” I pause, licking the remnants of the snack off my lips. Then I clearmy throat and try to keep my voice as nonchalant as possible. “So how’s Dad?”
Mom exhales a long, deep breath. Her shoulders fall with the weight my question just lumped on them—and I hate it.
My fists curl into balls at my side as I watch her wrestle with the topic that has always brought us so much happiness and safety but now is associated with pain.And dread. Fire licks at the back of my throat as I, too, fight the emotions creeping inside me. There’s nothing fair, or fixable, about this situation. And as the man my father raised, the man he raised to take care of my mother and sisters in times like this, it’s clear that I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I can offer suggestions and step in to help, but my help isn’t always wanted.
How do you balance taking the lead and staying in the role of your parents’ child?
“He had a really rough night,” Mom says, her tone packed with the exhaustion she tries to hide from me. “He kept trying to find his keys so he could go to work, and then he went into the garage and got angry because he thinks someone stole his truck.”
