A tall, distinguished-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair appears behind my mother, placing a hand on her shoulder. It’sRichard—the surgeon who swept my mother off her feet and across an ocean.
“Hello, Cheyenne,” he says with a slight accent I can never quite place. “Your mother has been quite excited about this news.”
“There is no news,” I say firmly. “Just a misunderstanding that got blown out of proportion.”
Mom sighs dramatically. “Well, that’s disappointing. He’s very handsome, Cheyenne. And I looked him up on Google—he’s quite successful, too. You could do worse.”
The casual way she dismisses my explanation makes my jaw clench. “I just got out of a relationship, Mom. With Garrett. Remember him? The guy I dated for nearly four years?”
“Oh, right,” she says vaguely. “The tech person. I never thought he was quite right for you, honestly. Too ... rigid.”
I bite back a sarcastic response. She met Garrett exactly once, over a stilted Zoom call. She barely remembers him, yet somehow she’s formed a complete opinion on my relationship. Meanwhile, she’s already googled Dylan based on a single gossip article.
“Well, it doesn’t matter now,” I say. “We broke up on Thanksgiving. But I’m fine.”
“Thanksgiving?” Mom frowns. “That was nearly six weeks ago. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried calling you,” I remind her. “Twice. You didn’t pick up.”
“Did I call you back?” she asks, sounding genuinely confused.
“No, Mom. You didn’t.”
She has the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “Well, we’ve been terribly busy. The social scene here is non-stop, especially during the holidays.”
“It’s fine,” I say automatically, the words sounding hollow. “I’m fine.”
Richard murmurs something I can’t quite hear, and Mom nods. “We should go, darling. It’s late here. But I’ll check in more often, I promise.”
“Sure, Mom.” I sigh. “Thanks for calling.”
“Love you, sweetheart. Have a wonderful Christmas!”
And then she’s gone, the screen going dark before I can even say goodbye. I stare at my reflection for a moment, taking in my pinched expression, the tension around my eyes.
Jhett stirs at my feet, lifting his head to gaze at me with concern.
“That was my mother,” I tell him, setting my phone down and reaching to scratch behind his ears. “Making her quarterly appearance. In case you forgot what she sounds like.”
Jhett’s brown eyes remain fixed on mine with that uncanny canine perception.
“Mom remembers I exist because someone took pictures of me with a famous hockey player,” I continue, my voice catching slightly. “Not because it’s almost Christmas and I’m alone, but because there’s gossip.”
I stand up, too restless to stay seated. Jhett follows me as I move around the apartment, straightening things that don’t need straightening, adjusting picture frames that are already perfectly angled. I rearrange the throw pillows on the couch, wipe down the already clean kitchen counters, organize the neatly stacked pile of mail.
“And now she’s ‘going to check in more often,’” I mimic her breezy tone. “Sure she will. Until she realizes there’s no exciting gossip to be had.”
It wasn’t always like this between us.
Before Richard, before Europe, we shared a tiny apartment where Mom would collapse on the couch after hospital doubles, still in scrubs that smelled of antiseptic and lavender lotion. Sometimes she was too tired to speak, and I’d just curl up on the couch against her heartbeat. Other nights, despite twenty-hour nursing shifts, she’d pull thrift-store books from her bag and read with ridiculous voices until I hiccupped with laughter. Even when her nursing degree stretched her thinner—with longer hours, and less laughter—she remained present. I never doubted she loved me then.
I wish I could tell her how much I miss that version of her, who showed up for the boring parts, not just the headline moments. But whenever I try, my throat closes and sarcasm is all that comes out.
I toss the dish towel aside and lean against the counter, suddenly exhausted. Jhett nudges my hand with his nose, and Iautomatically drop to my knees to hug him, burying my face in his soft fur.
“At least I’ve got you,” I whisper. “You’re always here.”
Eventually, I stand up again and reach for my phone, opening my text thread with Genna. My fingers hover over the keyboard. I want to tell her about my mom’s call, about how it made me feel, but I stop myself. Genna’s out with Paul. She’s happy. I don’t want to burden her with my drama, especially when she’s spending time with her new boyfriend.
