"Not telling you."
I chuckled, shaking my head. "When do you need to start?"
"Within the hour. Why? What did you have in mind?"
"Let me cook for you, and we can talk outside."
She eyed me suspiciously but nodded, watching as I moved into the kitchen. I started preparing a real breakfast—eggs, toast, hash browns, bacon—the works.
Logan, finally deciding to leave, muttered something about work and took his coffee with him, but not before throwing me one last smug look.
The second the door closed behind him, I glanced at Michelle.
She was watching me carefully, her lips slightly parted, her fingers still resting on the rim of her coffee mug. Something unspoken passed between us.
I let her sit with it, let her process whatever she was feeling, before I finally said, "So, I want to tell you more about my mom."
Her fingers stilled.
Michelle swallowed, then met my gaze, her voice softer now, laced with something careful, knowing. “Brooks, I’m ready to listen, but please don’t do this out of guilt.”
I shook my head, squeezing her hand gently, grounding myself in the warmth of her palm against mine. “I’m not. We’re really trying this.” The words settled between us, a quiet confession, a reminder. “You and me. If we’re going for it, you should know.”
Her fingers tightened around mine, her brows pulling together like she was bracing herself for whatever came next. “Okay,” she said. “I’m ready to listen.”
I exhaled, running my free hand down my face before finally letting the words out. “She’s getting worse.” My voice was rough, heavier than I expected, and I cleared my throat, forcing myself to keep going. “Even since you saw her… she’s had two episodes where she tried calling the cops, thought our dad was still alive.”
Michelle’s expression didn’t change much—just a slight twitch of her jaw, a subtle tightening of her lips, but her grip on my hand never faltered.
“She lives in a facility in town because it’s safer for her,” I continued. “They have nurses on call twenty-four-seven, they know how to handle her when she forgets where she is. It’s the best place for her.” I swallowed hard, my chest tightening with the weight of the truth I could barely admit to myself. “But it’s still… so fucking hard. She forgets Logan and me sometimes.”
Michelle inhaled sharply, her throat working around words she didn’t say. Instead, she just nodded, her thumb brushing over the back of my hand in slow, careful strokes.
“That cannot be easy.” Her voice was gentle, understanding in a way that didn’t feel like pity.
“It sucks.” I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head. “And it kills me not knowing if I’m doing the right thing.”
Her eyes darkened, something flickering in them that looked like recognition.
“I am so sorry your family has to deal with this,” she said quietly. Her lashes fluttered as she shut her eyes for a moment, but when she opened them again, there wasn’t an ounce of pity in them—just something steady, something real.
I let out a slow breath, but it still felt like there was a damn brick sitting on my chest.
“The day after the wedding was the worst,” I admitted. “She was calling our dad’s old job, convinced he was alive. She freaked out at the nurse when they tried to tell her the truth, started screaming for him like she was still in the past. I just…” I shook my head, rubbing my palm over my face. “I put my head in my hands like this.” I demonstrated, resting my elbows on the counter, feeling the weight of it all over again.
Michelle reached out, her fingers warm as she traced them lightly over my forearm, keeping her touch gentle, but firm. “She’s lucky you and Logan are such good sons.”
I let out a humorless chuckle, lifting my head. “Wait, what?”
“You dropped everything and went to help her that day,” she said simply, like it was obvious. “You have a picture of her in your kitchen. You talk about her like she’s still the same person she was before the disease, and you wouldn’t do that if you didn’t love her that much.”
I blinked at her, my throat feeling unbearably tight.
Michelle’s fingers stayed against my arm, grounding me, keeping me present. “I wouldn’t wish that disease on my worst enemy,” she murmured.
I exhaled, shoving a hand through my hair, my chest aching from the truth of it. “It’s soul-crushing.”
Her lips parted, hesitation flashing in her eyes, like she wanted to say something but wasn’t sure if she should. Then, after a beat, she asked, "How can I help you?"
