“She loves me,” I said finally.
He accepted that and went back to his Legos, satisfied. I stared at my phone again, then typed back. Did I want to see my mom? Yeah, I did. It had been too long.
Me: Let’s meet at a coffee shop. There’s a place called Benny’s. When are you here?
Mom: Now
Again, the gross feeling rooted in my gut. They were expecting me to say yes, to drop plans. And they knew I would too.
“Hey, Miles, want to meet my mom and get a special whipped cream drink?”
“Yes!” He threw the Lego’s down and stared at me with wide eyes. “My mom loves those! She always drinks them and lets me eat all the whipped cream!”
He was so excited his voice rose an octave but then he stilled. “She can’t have them anymore though. She’s dead.”
“Hey, hey.” I moved toward him, bending low and putting my finger over his heart. “She is always,alwaysgoing to be in here. She is always with you. And you know what? You can have an entire drink to yourself today. Our special treat.”
“That is cool!” He smiled and nodded. “Let’s go do it.”
The café smelled like burnt espresso and cinnamon when we walked in, the kind of place that tried too hard to feel cozy and mostly succeeded. Miles immediately broke away from my side, magnetized toward the pastry case like it was calling his name, while I scanned the room and spotted my parents at a small table near the window. My stomach tightened, not from fear exactly but from the familiar tension of stepping into a version of myself I hadn’t chosen in years.
My mom stood the second she saw me, her smile wide and practiced, arms already opening. She moved a little slower than she used to, one foot careful as she stepped around the chair, and I noticed it the way I always did—quietly, without comment. “Emily!” she said, pulling me into a hug that was warm but brief, her hand patting my back twice before she pulled away. “You look thin.”
“Hi, Mom,” I said, stepping back before the comment could settle too deeply. I kept my smile in place, because I loved her and because I knew she didn’t always realize what slipped out anymore. Seven years post-stroke, she was mostly herself again—but sometimes her words still arrived out of order, without the filter they used to pass through.
My dad stood more slowly, hands shoved into his pockets, his expression softer than I expected and sharper than I wanted. He looked older than I remembered, or maybe I was seeing him more clearly now. “Hey, Em,” he said, like we hadn’t talked on the phone a dozen times this year and disagreed every single one of them.
“This is Miles,” I said, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Noah’s nephew.”
Miles waved enthusiastically, chocolate already on his fingers. “Hi. I’m five. I like dragons and pancakes.”
My mom laughed immediately, delighted in the easy way she always was with kids. My dad smiled too, but there was something measuring in his eyes as he nodded, like he was taking stock instead of meeting a child. “Nice to meet you, buddy,” he said, voice polite and contained.
We ordered drinks and sat, Miles perched happily with his whipped cream and hot chocolate while I took the chair across from my parents. The conversation started light, the way it always did—traffic complaints, weather observations, how crowded the city felt lately. My mom talked about a neighbor’s new dog, my dad nodded along, and for a few minutes our family conversation almost felt normal.
It never stayed that way.
“So,” my dad said eventually, stirring his coffee even though he hadn’t added anything to it. The spoon clinked against the ceramic, repetitive and unnecessary. “How is your clothing thing going? You’re nannying too?”
My shoulders tensed instantly, my spine straightening like muscle memory kicked in. “It’s not a thing, Dad,” I said evenly. “It’s my business. I’m working with the Rampage to launch a line. That’s not athing.”
He nodded like he’d expected that answer, like this conversation had already played out in his head without my participation. “Right. But it’s not exactly a full career, is it?”
My mom jumped in quickly, her hand touching his arm in that familiar, mediating way. “Your father worries,” she said gently. “You know how he is.”
“I do,” I replied, keeping my voice calm even as something hot coiled in my chest. “I’ve known my whole life.”
He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms like he was settling in for a lecture. “I don’t want to see you waste time on something that doesn’t lead anywhere,” he said. “You’re not twenty anymore, Em. At some point, you have to grow up. You’re not staying on our insurance after this year, and nannying and making clothing aren’t sufficient enough.”
The words hit harder than I expected, sharp and familiar, like they’d been waiting patiently to be used again. My first instinct was to explain—to justify numbers, timelines, proof that I wasn’t irresponsible or naive. I felt myself start to shrink, start to shape my response around what might make him comfortable.
Miles beat me to it.
“She makes clothes for people,” he said simply, blowing on his chocolate milk. “People like them. That means it’s important.”
The table went quiet, and I wanted to hug that kid so hard.
My dad blinked, clearly unprepared to be corrected by a five-year-old with chocolate on his chin. “Well,” he said slowly, recovering. “That’s… one way to look at it.”
