Not ever.
“Do you miss her?” he asked softly.
I lifted my head to look at him. “Miss who?”
“Your mum.”
For the second time that day, dang it, tears filled my eyes.
He shoved my face in his throat and said, “Stupid question. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“She was stay at home. Dad worked. She was going to go back to work when I was in kindergarten. That happened earlier, necessarily. They were young. Just starting out. New family. Crushing mortgage. He had a life insurance policy, but it pretty much only covered his funeral. I learned this all later, from Gram. Mom had no choice but to sell the house and move in with them. It was only going to be until she got on her feet, but we became a family, so we stayed. I don’t think she liked it. But she did like there was always someone there for her girls. Someone to get them from school or take them to a friend’s house. Someone to help with the grocery shopping. She worked reception at a dentist’s practice. She was there for twenty-three years. She didn’t make a ton. We had more because we had them.”
“She never remarried?”
I got choked up, swallowed it down, and said huskily, “I guess Dad was a hard act to follow.”
He gave me a squeeze.
I pulled out of his throat to look at him. “She was great. The one good thing was, after Solène and I left, Mom could get a little house of her own. She loved that house. Did it up exactly the way she wanted. I just wish she had more time in it.”
“I do too, for her, for you.”
I gave him a shaky smile and continued, “Gram and Gramps were great too. We were really happy. We didn’t know we didn’t have much. Both my grandparents were teachers, so they weren’t rolling in it either. But we had each other, and the way they raised us, with a lot of love, laughter, support, togetherness, that was all we needed.”
“That’s beautiful.”
“It was. And I’m glad you have a version of that too, with your sisters. I think that’s why I’m so comfortable here. There’s a lot of love in this house. It’s a big house, but it still feels like a home.”
It was only after I said that, woefully, when I realized the long length of his body under me had stiffened.
“Shit, did I say the wrong thing?” I asked.
“You think this house is full of love?” he asked in return.
“You don’t?” I queried hesitantly.
“I’ve never thought on it.”
“Well,” I said carefully, “it is.” Even more carefully, I stroked his jaw and whispered, “And it’s obvious you’re the one who built that.”
“She was raped.”
Now my body stiffened.
Straight to stone.
“Some monster who was a guest at a wedding she did the flowers for,” he went on.
Oh no.
I mean, that was what I was guessing happened.
But I hated to have it confirmed.
“He asked her out. She had a boyfriend. She declined. He refused to be put off and wasn’t, in the end. He cornered her in the back of her shop after closing, beat the fuck out of her because she fought, and probably because she didn’t say yes when he wanted her to, and he raped her.”
I framed his head in my hands and had no words to say except an aching, “Battle.”
