“You’re a smart girl. You’ll figure it out.”
She used to say that all the time. Dismissing me, I’d thought, too busy with her own life to worry about my decisions. But now I saw her trust as a gift, empowering me to make my own choices.
“Either way, I quit my job. I emailed the school last night.” I watched her fold my old high school sweatshirt. “Are you disappointed?”
“Why would I be disappointed?”
“Because I’m twenty-five years old and moving back home?”
“Been quiet around here since your father died. Mostly quiet when he was here, come to that.” She stared into the middle distance. “He wasn’t one for talking, your father, unless it was about you.” She glanced quickly at me and away,but not before I saw the…Were those tears in her eyes? “Been nice having you around.”
My heart squeezed. “You always encouraged me to leave.”
“I wanted you to be free to go. Because I never went.” She smiled wryly. “Guess I’ve always wondered what it would be like.”
It was a side of my mother I’d never even imagined. “It’s not too late. You’re only fifty-three.”
“Too old for a midlife crisis.”
“Unless you live to a hundred and six.”
“God help us,” Mom said.
But once the idea had seized me, I couldn’t let it go. “Beverly’s going to travel with Zoe once she retires.”
“I can’t get away. I’ve got the shop.”
My mind bubbled. “But now you have me to help you. I mean, I can’t make fudge yet, but…maybe I can learn? Joe’s mom says if you can read, you can follow a recipe.” I moved on hastily from the topic of Joe. “And I’m good with customers.”
“You are,” my mother agreed. “I should show you something.”
“Willy Wonka’s secret inventing room?”
My mother snorted.
—
I hadn’t goneinto Dad’s workshop in weeks, reluctant to face the mess I’d made, the haphazard piles a painful reminder of everything in my life I’d left unfinished.
My mother unlocked the door and pushed it open.
I stepped inside, my heart beating. The countertops were clean, the tools put away. The piles of lumber, buckets of woodscraps, paint cans, and bottles of glue were gone. A four-drawer filing cabinet had replaced the orange storage bins. A trio of my father’s birdhouses hung on one wall.
My mouth fell open. “What…? Who…?”
“I had some time. Joe helped with the tools.”
Of course he did, I thought with a twist of my heart. He was always showing up to fix things. “For…me?”
“No, I thought I’d take up quilting,” my mother said. “Of course it’s for you.”
“To write in.”
“Whatever you want.”
“Mom, I…” My throat closed. My head swirled with plans and dreams. “It’s perfect. I love it.” I threw myself at her like a little girl.
And she caught me, the way she always had.
