Page 122 of Autumn on My Mind

“Is Daryl baking?” I say, impressed.

“He is,” Dom says.

Dominic’s dad has dated a bit over the last few years, but he’s never gotten serious with anyone, and Dom and I are half convinced Alvina scared him away from romance altogether. His time with her is collectively referred to as his Midlife Crisis Era.

Since Alvina’s life comprises more crises than periods of calm, on the other hand, I refer to her relationship with Daryl as an instance of legitimately good taste. It never would have worked between them, of course, but Daryl’s pretty great.

“Do you think it would be weird?” I say now, biting my lip. “Having them both in the same place?”

“Nah,” Dom says as he picks up the framed diploma, turning it over to check what kind of brackets are on the back. “They were both at the wedding, weren’t they?”

“Yeah…” I trail off uncertainly. “But there were more people there, and Alvina kept to herself. Plus I had Nate keeping an eye on her. He might not even be able to come tomorrow.”

Dominic shrugs. “Then don’t invite her,” he says, crossing the room and bending down to dig in his sturdy canvas bag.

“But…she’s my mom.”

“Then invite her.”

“But I kind of don’t want to.”

‘Then don’t.”

“But—”

Dom straightens back up and glares at me, and I laugh. Bella laughs too, because even though she has no idea what we’re talking about, she mimics our emotions a lot. Dom’s mock glare turns into a bright smile as we look at her, her hair in wispy, lopsided pigtails, her cheeks round as she giggles.

I let Dominic get started on hanging the diploma and scoop Bella into my arms, holding her tight and pressing a kiss onto her chubby cheek.

In truth, I don’t know if I’ll invite Alvina to dinner tomorrow. I might not decide in time, even if I end up wishing I had; while Dom and I live just outside of Autumn Ridge, Alvina is an hour away now.

My therapist says healing isn’t linear, and I’ve found this to be true. What I do know is that I’ll be the best mother to Bella that I can possibly be. I’ll cherish her and love her, and she will never question where I stand. She will never wonder if I care about her; she’ll never worry that my love is conditional.

I’m pretty sure at this point, and my therapist agrees, that I’m working with a chemically different brain from the one Alvina’s got. But these are choices I’ve made, too—not to be a perfect mother, but to be steady and constant in every way I can.

Dom is an incredible father, too, working as an electrician and utterly present when he’s home with us. It’s exactly what I expected, building a family with him.

Sticky baby hands from spilled applesauce. Stolen kisses in the pantry. Intoxicating squeals of laughter and bedtime stories and Sunday walks with our secondhand stroller.

When I first fell for him, really fell for him, it wasn’t the right time. He was the right person, even then—but it wasn’t our time yet. Now, though?

We’re not rich. We’re relatively sleep-deprived, in the throes of toddlerhood.

But we are so, so happy.