“Mom, hi,” I say quietly as we enter through the back door. She’s reading in the living room with a cup of tea.
She sets her book down and removes her glasses. “You’re back. Would you like tea? I can get—”
“All set, thanks.” I sit in the armchair next to the couch while Hazel heads upstairs to the guest room. “Is Warren officially retired now?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation light.
“We’re closer than before,” Mom says.
“Sounds like this has been a hard transition for him.”
She grabs her cup, the scent of her chamomile tea drifting over to me. “He’ll be fine. These things take time getting used to is all,” she says. “So… the lottery? You really played?”
I settle back against the cushion. “On a whim.”
“Isn’t that something?” Mom wonders. “Are you and Hazel okay now?”
I rest my elbows on my thighs as I lean forward in thought. “More sites are picking up that social post. You know how many people win every week? A lot. They just don’t go to the lengths wedid to try to hide our identities. That’s what everyone’s entertained by.” I shake my head. “It was my idea, too.”
“Sounds like you were trying to help,” Mom says.
“I really was.”
Mom tucks one leg underneath her, adjusting to face me. “At least the security footage was flattering.”
That’s one way to look at it.
“I’m sorry for snapping,” I say as a crack of thunder booms overhead.
She sighs and pats my cast. “It was a nice time while we had it. Logan, I know you’ve had your challenges, but you come out stronger for them. Always remember that.”
This is the point in the conversation where I’d nod and agree or stay silent and not push back.
But I can’t do that anymore. “Do I, though?” I ask.
“What do you mean? Of course you do,” Mom says with a light laugh. “You have a good job, you live in New York City, you’ve got your health. You won the lottery for goodness’ sake! Just look at everything you’ve been through and have overcome.”
The room is dimly lit with just the small lamp on the table next to the couch. Still, I can see that Mom’s trying hard to put on a good face.
“Overcome or ignored?” I ask.
“Ignored?”
“Hard conversations, hard feelings. You don’t think we’ve just conveniently not dealt with those?” I ask.
“Where is this coming from?” Mom asks, her voice tight.
“I know when I transferred schools and went into carpentry and moved to the city, you were worried, especially after what had happened,” I say, processing this as it comes out, “But I didn’t want you to be concerned, so I pretended everything was okay—I pretendedIwas okay—all the time.”
“I’m your mother. Am I not allowed to worry?” she asks. “You cut yourself off and changed your life after going through something huge.”
It was something we all had to go through, and every one of us kept things positive. There was never any honesty, any realness, even to this day. I know I’m not innocent in this.
“You were the one I probably didn’t need to worry about as much, though,” Mom adds. “You’ve been my lucky boy since birth.”
“See? That right there,” I say, holding my hands out, “is not helpful.”
“Well, you have been!” Mom says with a shrug, her tea nearly sloshing over the sides of her mug. “Quite literally, too. Of all my children’s births, yours was the shortest and the least painful. How lucky is that? You practically walked out.”
“Nope! Too much,” I say, covering my ears.
