Page 17 of The Love Playbook

“That’s awesome.”

I have a soft spot for Carol. Sometimes I think her presence, along with the influence of a teacher who inspired my career choice, are the only reasons I survived high school with my sanity intact. When Mom was unavailable, forgot to sign a fieldtrip form, or couldn’t get out of bed to give me a ride, Carol was only a phone call away.

I take a bite of my muffin, glancing out the kitchen window into the backyard, gaze raking over the blanket of leaves on the ground, and I wonder if this is what normal feels like. Sitting here on my birthday with my mother, sharing coffee and apple muffins and making small talk.

I smile to myself because it’s something I could get used to. There are other memories like this interspersed in my childhood, times Mom was “normal” and not sad all the time.

I remember baking with her when I was young, making cookies and homemade granola. Gown shopping for homecoming. Teaching me how to put on makeup. Cuddling on the couch and watching Christmas movies. Wrapping presents until my fingers ached. But then something would happen, and depression would take over. Worse yet, were the times there was no warning and a depressive episode would hit out of nowhere. Suddenly, overnight she’d wake up a shell of her former self. The mother who laughed and braided my hair before school was gone, lost in the quicksand of her mind no one could save her from?not my father, nor me. Growing up with Tiffany Baker felt a lot like a yo-yo being yanked back and forth.

I eat my last bite of eggs, grateful for this moment. Maybe this weekend won’t be so bad after all. Maybe now that I’m away at school, when I do come home, I can enjoy our visits and make the most of them.

I push my plate away and catch my mother’s gaze. Her eyes are dark and nebulous, clouded with thought, and exactly like my own. “So,” Mom clears her throat, glancing down at her coffee, “what are your father’s plans for the weekend since you’re not there?”

And just like that, my happy bubble pops as reality crashes in, because our chances of having a nice birthday weekend just gota lot slimmer. I need to tell her about Dad; I know I do. If Mom finds out?and she will?and I didn’t tell her . . .

I focus back on her, watching her closely as I say, “I need to tell you something.”

The muscle in her jaw twitches, her gaze searching my face for answers while I contemplate all the ways in which I can break the news to her. I know she’ll eventually hear it on her own, but the guilt that comes with knowing and not saying anything is too hard to ignore.

“They’re getting married,” I blurt.

Mom winces like I slapped her. The darks of her eyes turn to mud as they fill with tears. “What?”

“They told me last night. It’s part of why I was home so late. I . . . I needed to think.”

Mom absorbs this information like a sponge, her expression quickly shifting into one of despair. “When?”

“In the spring?”

Mom bows her head, gripping the table with her hands as if to keep herself in her chair. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.” Her voice cracks when she asks, “Is she pretty?”

I shake my head. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

Her watery gaze lifts, meeting mine. “What does she look like?”

“Mom?”

“I need to know.”

I clench my jaw, unsure if I should deign her with an answer when I know it will only hurt worse. Barbie Collins is gorgeous. The years have been much kinder to her than to my mother. But I don’t say that. Instead, I say, “She’s okay, I guess. Blonde with blue eyes.”

Like her son.

“The complete opposite of me.” Mom tears her eyes from mine, biting her lower lip.

I don’t deny it, because she’s not wrong.

In every way, Barbie Collins is the complete opposite of Tiffany Baker, and not just her blonde hair and blue eyes compared to my mother’s darker features. Her personality is vibrant and bright, while my mother acts as though she lives beneath a constant raincloud.

While Barbie picked herself up by the bootstraps after her husband died to provide for her children, my mother struggled with depression her whole life, only to sink deeper after the divorce and struggles to hold a job.

“Does she have kids?” Mom asks.

Fuck.

I roll my lips together before answering. “Six.”

My mother’s eyes widen. “Are they all still at home?”

---