“Yes, sweetheart?”
“I was just thinking about Thanksgiving,” I say, spreading marmalade onto my toast while trying to read her expression. “Is Dad taking the morning flight, or will he get here the night before? I wanted to make that pumpkin pie he loves. And I’m organizing the decorations for our annual party at The Snowed Inn…”
Her hand freezes mid-air.
She sets her cup down with absurd delicacy, like she’s afraid the slightest movement might break something.
“Oh, Sloane…”
She sighs and adjusts the robe at her waist, smoothing the silk in a distracted, anxious gesture.
“Your father won’t be here for Thanksgiving. He can’t get away… you know how busy he is.”
The disappointment hits low and sharp.
But confusion hits harder.
“What do you mean he won’t be here?” My brows knit. “Mom, he told me himself he wanted to slow down. He said he planned to leave the club at the end of the season so he could spend more time with us. He seemed so sure.”
My mother looks down, worrying her bottom lip. She chooses her words like she’s tiptoeing through a minefield.
“He wants that, sweetheart. More than anything,” she says with surprising intensity. “But… big changes take time. And that’s why he has to finish things the right way. He needs to make sure… that we’re prepared for the future. He can’t walk away overnight.”
I stare at my toast.
Prepared for the future.
It sounds like a line.
Like the kind of excuse parents give a child right before announcing they’re separating and need to “figure things out financially” first.
My heart stutters.
I’ve seen them whispering in hallways.
I’ve seen Dad looking at her with worry before leaving for away games.
I’ve seen her like this—tired, distant, drinking tea instead of coffee.
What if this “future” she’s talking about doesn’t include the three of us together?
“Mom,” I say, my voice a little shaky, “are you and Dad… okay?”
Her eyes widen.
“What? Of course!” She leans across the counter and grabs my hand, squeezing it tightly. “Sloane, your father and I love each other more than anything. Don’t ever doubt that, okay?”
Her eyes shimmer for a moment—raw, emotional, fragile.
“We’re just…” She hesitates, then brushes a hand against my cheek. “We’re just going through a delicate moment. We want to be sure about a few things before we make changes. But we’re fine. Truly.”
Do I believe her? I want to.
But the unspoken weight in the room sits heavy on my chest.
She sighs, sinks back into her chair, and takes a sip of her tea.
“Enough serious talk. I need a distraction. I’ve had a nause— a headache, an awful one, all morning.”
