“I married Ed because I was scared and wanted to do the right thing. He was a good man and a safe choice. He was right when he said a pounding heart is a bad decision maker, it is,but a life without feeling—without passion—is so much worse. I didn’t know that then. I waited years for it to pass. And some days I think ...” She looks at her hands. “That I spent a life with the wrong man.”
So many pieces of my mother fall into place with that confession. Her need to always be doing something. The classes and renovating. She and my dad being together despite how altogether different they were. She was chasing a feeling that could never be emulated.
“I loved Ed like a best friend, but I loved Rueben like a lover.” If regret had a sound, it would be my mother’s voice. “I was happy with my life, it was just ... different.”
It is such a strange yet inevitable thing to see a parent as human, and in this light, my mother has never looked like more of one.
“Why didn’t you go see him after Dad died?”
“I’m stubborn”—that’s an understatement—“and I didn’t know how to tell you the truth.”
“So why tell me now?” I ask, frustration creeping into my tone. “Why not wait until—I don’t know—never?”
“I’m worried you’re repeating history with Jonathan.”
I suck in a sharp breath. “I am not. This is different.”
“It is not,” she argues.
“It is,” I insist. “I’m marrying Jonathan because I want to—because he’s good for me—I love him. Not because I’m trapped with a bastard child I need a father for.”
“You’re marrying him because you’re missing something and he’s a safe choice.”
My voice raises. “I’m notmissingsomething. And there’s nothing wrong with being safe. Better safe than sorry is a saying for a reason.”
“What do you do for fun?”
“Chase down psychics and get lowballed on crystal ball deals, thanks for asking.”
“You loved Nash.”
My next groan comes out more like a roar. “Please—please—don’t do this right now.”
“You loved Nash,” she repeats, “and you got scared because he was unpredictable, and now you’re marrying the wrong man, and I don’t want you to end up like me.”
“What’s wrong with ending up like you?”
“Every mother wants their child to be better than them.”
“I’m happy the way I am. I was happy with Dad. I’m happy.”
“You aren’t.”
“Mom. You?—”
“Have spent forty-two years with my heart beating to the wrong rhythm,” she finishes for me. “I let you girls think that was okay and I won’t do it anymore. I take the blame, and now I’m going to fix it.”
This trips me up.
“Mom.” I force my voice to be softer than I feel. “I’m fine. Or I will be. I don’t think I fully understand right now in the thick of everything else that I have a biological father who wanted nothing to do with me turning into you marrying someone you didn’t love like a lover.” I give her a grim look. “But Reese, Remy, and I? We’re okay. You were a great mom.”
“And maybe one day you might like to meet him.”
“Meet him?” I am gobsmacked. “What the hell for? This man didn’t care that I even existed. He sent you away. Pregnant.”
She frowns. “He didn’t send me away. I made a choice.”
I’m not arguing semantics. “I had a dad—a good one—one who didn’t avoid responsibilities because he was hunting treasure. I don’t want to meet this”—I eye the article—“drunk digger. I’m fine. This is weird, but I’m fine. Freaked out. Concerned with how easily you lie about everything.” I give hera pointed look. “But we have other issues to deal with. Like no money. And the growth on yourbesottedbrain. I do not care about knowing this man. I’m forty-two, I don’t need a new dad unless he has a boatload of money. What I need is ...” I look around the room, reminders of everything that’s going wrong and we’re about to lose screaming at me. “An actual treasure.”
