“Yeah.” I already know where this is going.
“We turned it into a game. Counting the birds, spotting animals, looking for agates and flowers.” A faint smile tugs at her lips. “I’ll never forget the day when you found your first lady slipper. You called it a plant monster.”
A small laugh slips out. “Why they named that the state flower, I’ll never know.”
Her smile fades just as quickly. “Now those things are just… memories. Not something I can easily do anymore.”
I fold my arms loosely around myself as the faint chatter of the TV fills the room along with the hum of the fridge kicking on, and the soft tick of the clock hanging on the wall. Everything keeps working, keeps moving. But Mom doesn’t get that luxury anymore. Her MS took something she loved. Something that made her feel free, and for once, I don’t have a solution waiting in my back pocket.
“We—” I hesitate, then try anyway. “We could go to the park. With the leaves changing it would be really pretty. And they have paved trails. We could bring your wheelchair in case you get tired.”
She shakes her head. “It’s not the same. Those trails are limited. They don’t feel… wild.”
“I know,” I murmur. “But the fresh air might still help. We could plan something simple. Sit by the lake. People-watch. Listen to the water.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. Then she exhales. “Sure, we can do that.”
My shoulders relax an inch. I reach for her hand and give it a gentle squeeze. “We’ll make it ours.”
She squeezes back. “I’d like that.”
Sitting there together in the dim light, I’m reminded that things change, sometimes permanently, but it doesn’t have to be the end. Even if it’s not the same, it can still be enough.
My phone rings. Miles’s name flashes across the screen. I stare at it for a second then send it straight to voicemail. He probably wants more dating advice. Or reassurance. Or a detailed analysis of body language cues. And I don’t have the bandwidth for any of that right now. All I want is this quiet moment with my mom and for one thing in my life not asking me to fix it.
The next day, after the opening shift at Porter’s, I finally check the voicemail.
“Hi, Nora. Um—thank you again for being my date at my niece’s birthday party. I had a really great time. But I have a problem. Please call me back so we can… discuss.”
I groan. Called it. Might as well rip the Band-Aid off. I dial his number. It rings a few times before he picks up.
“Hi, Miles. You called?”
“Yes. I need—you.”
“What?”
“About the birth—I mean—I need—but now my?—”
A deafening roar blasts through the line. I wince and pull the phone away from my ear. “What was that? I can barely hear you. Where are you?”
“Oh—sorry! I’m at the RC park!” he shouts. “Planes—off. Including—jet turbine. Loudest one here.”
“What?”
“—radio-controlled—flying?—”
“Where. Are. You.”
“Sunrise Park. Rice Lake Road.”
I blink. “I know where that is. I’m five minutes away. Stay there.”
A few minutes later, I pull in and step out of my SUV fully expecting an empty field. Instead, I’m met with what resembles a miniature airport. A long strip of blacktop cuts through the grass with orange cones marking invisible boundaries. Wooden tables sit a few feet from the blacktop covered in wires, batteries, and controllers. Drones and small planes buzz overhead, darting and diving while a cluster of people stare up at the sky as if they’re watching a low-budget air show. It’s loud, busy, but somehow still organized. I follow the noise to a paved launch area where I spot Miles hunched over a wooden table, completely absorbed in adjusting a drone.
“Hi, Miles,” I call, lifting a hand.
He startles, then looks up and smiles. “Hi, Nora.”
