Page 89 of Child of Mine

“Then I could still visit them, right?”

“Exactly. You could read them at the library, or you could check them out a few at a time. And you’d know that lots of other kids were getting to read them too.”

She sighs, but then she nods. “Can we get Chinese food now?”

Holding out my hand, I say, “That sounds like a very good idea.”

* * *

Later that evening,when my mother and I are driving back to my apartment, a question that I didn’t even know was spinning inside my head comes tumbling out of my mouth. “Mama, how did you know that Dad was—that you were in love with him? That he was the person you should spend your whole life with?”

She folds her hands on top of her bag. “Those are two different things, you know.”

“Uh, no. I don’t know.” I glance quickly in her direction. “Weren’t you in love with him?”

She nods slowly. “I was. But I loved other men before him.”

“But you loved him more.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

She says this like it’s no big deal, while this news pretty much undermines my entire worldview. “But you guys had—you were, like, perfect together.”

She pats me on the arm. “Honey, the music didn’t swell, and a rainbow didn’t suddenly appear in the sky. We had both dated other people through high school and college, but we met at a time when we were both just ready.” She looks out the window, and a little laughing sigh, or sighing laugh, falls out of her mouth. “I mean, he made me happy, and he made me mad. He was a good man, I knew that. He came from good people. But really, at some point you just decide that this person is worth it.”

“Worth what?”

“Well, you know. Making those little adjustments that allow two people to get through a life together. Bending a bit here, opening up a bit there, letting go of this or that.”

“That sounds…” I clear my throat. “Unromantic.”

“I don’t know,” she says, drawing the “oh” of “know” out even more than her accent usually allows. “I think it’s very romantic. Caring enough about someone else that you make room for things that are important to them. And accepting them as they are because you can. Romance isn’t about chocolate and flowers. It’s about… upchuck and the runs.”

Choking on an inhale of surprise, it’s several moments before I can get enough air in to speak. “Mama, no offense, but you should never write a romance novel.”

She shrugs, unmoved. “I’m just practical, I guess. But you know what I still miss about your father?”

I just shake my head, but I think,I hope it’s not something about the runs.

“I miss the half-filled coffee cups I used to find everywhere.” She waves her hand in the air. “In the house, at the shop. I’d find them behind planters and out by the forklift. Drove me crazy at the time, especially when one of my favorite mugs would disappear for weeks. But now,” she says, patting her chest, her voice a little wobbly, “I still keep an eye out for them. Even searching for them reminds me of the way he’d take a slow sip of coffee and then lift the cup in my direction to say, ‘Here’s looking at you, kid.’”

I’m speechless again, but this time it’s because of a full-on backlog of emotion.

She just shrugs. “We built a life together moment by moment. It takes work, but it’s all worth it because what you get in return is someone who knows every little thing about you and loves you anyway.”

As I park the car in front of my apartment building, her words circle my brain like an airplane waiting to land, while my heart thuds heavily down here on the ground. Afraid that leaving the car will end the conversation before I’ve gotten the advice I’m suddenly desperate for, I leave the keys in the ignition. “But what if I’m not sure that she feels the same way?”

“Well, how is it thatyoufeel?”

I search for an answer in the shrubbery still lit by the headlights. “Honestly, I feel raw, like someone has cracked open my chest with a crowbar and exposed everything inside.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“There are moments when she relaxes and lets go—if I make her laugh or she’s excited about an idea and shares it or she’s moved by something—that being with her is better than anything. But then she pulls away, and I feel… exposed. And alone.”

“Oh dear,” she sighs. “Someone hurt her.”

“I think a lot of someones did.”

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