“Work,” I confirm. Firmer than necessary, and that seems to tip something off in Mom, too.
“Just one week,” Max adds, her tone light but deliberate. A reminder. To me. To herself. Of the terms. Of the line we’re pretending hasn’t already blurred.
My mom narrows her eyes. “You think you brought enough clothes for February in Canada?”
Max opens her mouth. Closes it. Then glances at me.
“She didn’t,” I say. “So we’re heading into town later to get her something warmer.”
There’s a beat. A long one.
Then my mother nods once, like she’s just solved something we’re still confused about.
She disappears down the hall and returns moments later with an armful of knitted layers—thick scarves, wool sweaters, colorful mittens that look like they’ve been collected over decades of winters. She even has a pair of practical boots.
“Mom,” I say, genuinely confused. “Where was all this hiding?” Because this is my house, and I generally like to know where women’s clothing is being stashed.
She shrugs. “I keep a few things here in case I stay over. You should really look in your closets more often, Lee.”
I blink. Look at the pile. Then at Max.
“What is even happening right now?” I ask.
My mother doesn’t bother answering.
Max looks at the pile. Then at me.
Neither of us says a word.
“What size shoes do you wear, sweetheart?”
Max looks at the boots on the ground. “Umm. A size seven?”
“Wonderful! These are seven and a half but put on an extra pair of socks and you’ll be just fine.”
Max smiles. “Thank you. I…I don’t know what to say.”
My mother beams. “That’s what moms are for. And this way you don’t have to go into town, and y’all can get back to whatever you were doing before I barged in,” she says, winking.
“Mom,” I warn through gritted teeth.
“Uh…thanks?” Max says, though it comes out more like a question than gratitude.
And then, like she hasn’t just dropped a conversational grenade in the middle of my kitchen, my mother turns her back and for a second I think she’s going to walk out of the room.
Instead, she invites Max in. “Come on, Max!” she calls over her shoulder. “I’ve got a few more things to do before I head home, and I could use an extra set of hands.”
Max follows her lead and I can’t help but grin at the way Max is winning my mom over. She’s laughing at her jokes, helping her unpack, getting the recipes to her best oils and homemade remedies like they’ve been girlfriends for years. No effort. No posturing. Just this natural pull she has.
That they both have.
Her essence is bold.
It just walks in, settles down, and makes itself at home.
Typical Americans.
I watch them standing there, and I catch the flicker in my mother’s eyes. Like she sees something I haven’t said. Something I probably never will. But it’s there anyway, clear as day.
