Page 127 of Goal Line
But as the door opens fully, I get my second big surprise of the day when I see my mom, rather than the nurse, walking into my room.
She pauses in the doorway, and for a moment we just stare at each other. “I’m so sorry,” she says, her hand flying to her chest. “I don’t want to interrupt. I’ll come back later.”
She isn’t wearing the annoyed expression I’ve become accustomed to in situations like this—one that saysI’ve come all the way to the city to see you and you’re not available to welcome and entertain me. Instead, once she gets over the surprise of finding my room full of women she doesn’t know, her face conveys a sense of sadness and regret. It’s like she knows that she’s walked in on an event she wasn’t invited to but would have loved to have attended.
“No!” The word springs free before I have time to think. But it’s the right move. I don’t like fighting with my mom, and she’s made the effort to visit, so the least I can do is welcome her. “Don’t go, Mom.”
“We were actually just leaving,” AJ says, before introducing herself and my friends to my mom. It’s like she can sense that I don’t have the energy to do it. At this point, I’m exhausted, but the only thing I want more than a nap is to know why my mom has come—when she hasn’t visited with my dad or Luke’s parents the times they’ve been here—and whether we can mend bridges and restore our relationship.
“Your friends seem really sweet,” Mom says after they’ve stocked the mini fridge in the room with the leftover food and made their way out with my gifts, having already arranged to drop them off with Luke at our condo.
“They are.” I rest my head back against my pillows and focus all my remaining energy on staying awake. “They just threw me a surprise baby shower. I didn’t mean to exclude you.”
“I’m not sure I’d have deserved an invitation, even if you’d known. I’ve been a real bitch about your pregnancy, and I’m sorry.”
“You are?” My surprise at her statement drives away the remainder of my fatigue.
“Yes. I owe you an apology, not just for how I’ve treated you, but also for how long it’s taken me to acknowledge it. I know I’ve been overbearing and controlling about all aspects of your life, especially your skating career. And I know that I should have given you more independence as you entered adulthood, especially because you’ve clearly got things pretty well figured out. I knew what I was doing, and I knew it wasn’t the right thing for you or for our relationship. I just didn’t know how to stop acting like my own mother had acted.”
“But you...you never even had a relationship with your mom once you moved to the States,” I say, trying to figure out why she’d act exactly like a woman she hadn’t wanted to have a relationship with once she was an adult.
“Exactly,” she says as she wrings her hands together in her lap. “And I don’t want that for us.”
I want to believe her, but it’s difficult not to remain skeptical. Can this one conversation override a lifetime of experience? “What changed?”
“I always knew I didn’t want to turn into my mother. I saw it happening—saw myself doing the same kind of thingsshe did to me—I just didn’t know how to stop. Now, I’ve finally started doing the work.”
“The work?”
“I’ve done a lot of reading over the past month about the effects of generational trauma, and breaking negative parenting cycles, even after your child has become an adult. I’ve learned a lot. I thought I was in a better place when I saw you at Wellington, but when I learned that your dad had told you about the miscarriage even though we’d agreed not to...I reacted poorly and lashed out at the two of you.” She pauses briefly and shakes her head, and the look of disappointment on her face for once isn’t aimed at me, but rather at herself. “Since then, I’ve had some really open and honest conversations with your dad about how my behavior—overall, not just that night—has impacted our family.”
“I—” I press my lips between my teeth and take a deep breath as I process the fact that she’s done—and is doing—all this work. It didn’t stop her from blowing up at me a few weeks ago, but she’s here now, trying to make it better. “I don’t know what to say, Mom. I appreciate the efforts you’re making.”
As if she senses my reluctance, she says, “Honey, I don’t expect you to forgive and forget. I know that it will take time to repair our relationship. I just want you to know that Iwantthings to get better. I’m willing to work hard to make that happen, and I hope you are open to it, too?”
She’s not perfect, but neither am I. I’m not quite sure what we’ll need to do or how long it will take to reinvent our relationship, but I want to try.
I open my mouth to tell her that, but then suddenly I’msitting in a puddle. I look down, and there’s liquid everywhere—seeping beneath my new pajama pants and across my mattress pad. It looks like I’ve peed myself, but since I just used the bathroom before I took the picture with my friends, that seems impossible. I glance around to see if there was a cup left on my bed that got knocked over, but there’s nothing.
It’s only then that I realize my water has broken.
Chapter Fifty
LUKE
McCabe grunts, one long arm grasping each side of the crib as he lifts and turns to place it in front of the freshly painted accent wall in what used to be my guest bedroom.
“You could just ask for help,” Colt says.
“So you can re-injure your fucking knee? Not going to happen,” our captain grumbles.
“If lifting that little thing is going to do me any damage, I should go ahead and hang up my skates now.” Colt rolls his eyes, but McCabe misses it as he looks up at the ceiling and slides the crib over, centering it beneath the hook for the mobile. “And besides, you could’ve asked anyone for help.”
On the other side of the soon-to-be nursery, Drew and Zach are attaching a changing table to the top of a dresser. Next to them, Walsh is testing out the swanky glider that I hope Eva and I will both enjoy when feeding our daughter before naps and bedtime.
Colt glances at McCabe and says, “You know what’s missing here?”
McCabe lifts an eyebrow in response.
