Page 141 of The Love Playbook

Tears sting the back of my eyes as I find my voice. “I’ve missed you too, Mom,” I whisper.

My mother pulls back, holding me at arm’s length as she looks me over. “You look happy.”

“So do you.” In fact, she looks radiant, more like she used to when I was young.

“For the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m getting there; I really am. And I owe part of that to both of you,” she says, glancing down at Chris.

“It’s good to see you, too,” he says before rising to his feet and sweeping her into one of his giant bear hugs.

“I’ve been working so hard,” she says when he releases her, and we all sit. “I’m not near done yet, but I’m getting there. Rather than just therapy, I’ve done a lot of work with neuroplasticity, brain rewiring, and trauma release. It’s, well, life-changing,” she says with a self-conscious laugh.

“I wanna hear all about it,” I say, and then I listen as Mom launches into a diatribe about everything she’s done since coming here and how this is so different from her therapist back home.

I feel a lump in my throat, but it’s not one of sadness—it’s one of relief and joy. For the first time in so long, I can finally breathe knowing my mother is truly healing. The weight of the past few years, the stress and anxiety—everything that had burdened my heart—begins to lift.

“Well, that’s just . . .” I shake my head, at a loss for words. “I’m proud of you, Mom.”

Mom’s smile falters, a hitch in her voice when she says, “That day when you told me how you really felt and I saw how badly I had hurt you, it changed me. I know this sounds awful, but I never realized what my depression was doing to you. I always saw you as just this happy kid with a good head on her shoulders. Not like me. Never like me.” She shakes her head, her throat bobbing while an icy fist clenches my heart.

For so long I feared I would become like my mother, but I understand now how sick she really was. Her depression wasn’t contagious or hereditary. Just because I cry or get emotional doesn’t mean I’m doomed to spiral into darkness like she did. I won’t fall in love only to push everyone around me away. I’m my own person. I’m strong and loved and worthy, and I have nothing to fear because today and every day I choose happiness.

Still, it feels good to hear her say I’m different. It’s refreshing to sit across from her and feel like she sees me,reallysees me, for the first time in forever.

She reaches out and takes my hand, a fire in her eyes I’ve never seen before. “I’m sorry, Charlotte,” she says. “I’msosorry that you never felt like you were enough, or that you had to push me and help me when I was supposed to be the one supporting you and helping you. I can’t change the past, but I can change how Iam going forward, and I hope you’ll give me a chance to rebuild our relationship, the way it’s supposed to be.”

The ice in my chest thaws at her words because they’re all I’ve ever wanted to hear. All I ever wanted was for my mother to be well again, to be the woman I remember as a child, before the darkness consumed her.

“I’d like that,” I say, my voice thick.

“Good.” Mom nods her head and wipes her cheeks before she slaps her hands over her thighs and says, “Now that I’ve got that out of the way, let me tell you about the apartment I found for when I get out of here, and then I wanna hear all about school and this new yoga studio you’ve been going to.”

The next few hours pass in a blur with us talking and laughing and having lunch. I can hardly remember the last time we shared such a peaceful, uncomplicated moment together. Mom talks openly about her progress here, her newfound clarity, and plans for the future, all with a genuine optimism in her words, something that had been absent for so long, but even more amazing, she listens to me fill her in on my life at AU. I tell her all about my friends, how Brynn and Jace are glued at the hip and how Liz so badly wants a boyfriend. We talk about the Griffin’s and Chris’s final playoff game this weekend, all while she smiles and asks questions and seems genuinely interested in what I have to say.

By the time we say our goodbyes, I’m sad to go. It feels like I finally have a mother, one I might someday also call a friend, and I can leave her without a knot in my chest or the worry of what might happen when I’m gone.

On the drive home, I’m quiet, lost in my thoughts when Chris reaches out, his touch warm and reassuring. “You okay?”

I nod, squeezing his hand, feeling content in a way I haven’t in a long time, maybe ever. “Yeah, I’m more than okay. I’m . . .” I shake my head and exhale. “Grateful. Happy.”

He smiles. “She’s doing well.”

“She is, and she’s only halfway through. She has two more months to go.” I smile to myself, then drop my gaze from the window to the gearshift of his car, watching as he shifts gears and mesmerized by the play of muscle in his forearm. I could be with Chris for hundreds of years and watching him drive this car will never get old.

“She called our parents, you know,” he says, pulling me from my thoughts.

I tear my gaze away from his arm, my eyes wide on the side of his face. “She did? When, and what did she say? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Chris chuckles, making the turn to head back toward campus. “Last weekend.” He shrugs. “And I didn’t say anything because I thought she might tell you, but she called to thank them for helping make her treatment possible and for coordinating the sale of her house.”

“Unbelievable,” I whisper, as I lean my head back against the headrest.

Months ago, Mom would have cut off her right arm before she so much as said a kind word about Barb Collins, let alone say thank you to her.

My throat constricts as I think about everything Chris has done for me. “Have I said thank you yet?” I ask, pushing past the lump in my throat.

“Only a dozen times.”

Campus passes on our left, and the athlete apartments come into view.

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