Page 61 of Checking Mr. Wrong
I veer off course and make my way toward the closest grocery store. The fluorescent lights are a little too bright, but the familiar cool blast of air conditioning and the rows of neatly stacked items offer a weird kind of comfort.
The ice cream aisle is easy to find. Rows and rows of brightly colored cartons line the freezers, each one promising a little bit of peace in pint-sized servings. I’m scanning the shelves for something—anything—that feels like the right choice when a familiar voice pulls me out of my thoughts.
“Asher? Is that you?”
I turn around, and there she is—Mary-Ellen, Mabel’s mom, holding a basket filled with Halloween candy. Reese’s, Kit Kats, Snickers. The good stuff.
“Mrs. McCluskey,” I say, forcing a smile. “Fancy running into you here.”
“Call me Mary-Ellen, for goodness’ sake,” she says, her own smile warm and genuine. “How are you doing?”
“Oh, you know. Shopping for the week, mentally prepping for our away games coming up, and,” I say, gesturing to the ice cream, “trying to decide which one will solve all my problems.”
She chuckles, her laugh soft and kind. “If only it were that simple, right? So, what’s the flavor of the week?”
“Good question,” I say, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. “Maybe mint chocolate chip? Or cookie dough? Hard to go wrong with the classics.”
She nods thoughtfully, adjusting the basket on her arm. “You know, when Mabel was little, she had a thing for pistachio ice cream. The more vibrant green, the better. She used to say it made her feel fancy.”
The mention of Mabel sends a fresh wave of unease through me, but I swallow it down. “That’s a good choice. Pistachio’s underrated.”
Mary-Ellen glances at the rows of ice cream and then back at me. “Are you holding up okay, Asher? You look…well, like you’ve had better days.”
The kindness in her voice makes my chest tighten. “Just one of those weeks, you know?” I say, keeping it vague.
Mary-Ellen studies me, then reaches into the freezer and grabs a carton of chocolate fudge brownie, tossing it into herbasket with a sigh. “I don’t think there’s enough ice cream in the world for the moment you realize you’ve probably been the worst mother ever.”
“The worst mother?” That catches me off guard. “You can’t mean that.”
She shrugs, her gaze fixed on the basket. “Oh, I mean it. I’m having a week like you. It’s not easy realizing where you’ve fallen short.”
I pause, searching for the right words. “You know,” I begin carefully, “my mom used to say that being a parent is like trying to hit a moving target in the dark. You’re never going to get it all right. But what she cared about most wasn’t being perfect—it was showing up and trying, every single day.”
Mary-Ellen looks at me, her brows knitting together in thought. “And you think that’s enough?”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “I really do. I mean, have you met your daughter? She’s one of the most determined people I’ve ever come across. That didn’t come out of nowhere. She learned that from you, Mary-Ellen. You’re not falling short. You’re human.”
She tilts her head, listening with an intensity that makes me feel like I’ve said something right. “It’s not easy, is it? Life and relationships. I wish I could Google how to do these things sometimes.”
“No, it’s not easy,” I admit. “But I’m always working on things with my mom. I started trying to communicate more. To talk to her about how I feel. Somewhere in the midst of the chaos, I realized shecan’tread my mind and it’s helped. But I do think sometimes we’re harder on ourselves than we need to be.”
She nods slowly, her expression softening. “You’re right. Maybe that’s what Mabel and I need. Communication. She deserves the effort.”
“She does,” I say, and it feels like a small shared victory—acknowledging the need to try.
Mary-Ellen looks at me again, her eyes narrowing slightly asif she’s piecing something together. “You know, my daughter is like me. She’s not the easiest, but you make her smile. And trust me, that’s no small feat.”
I shake my head, unsure how to respond. “I don’t know about that.”
“Oh, come on,” she says with a wry smile. “Women are layered. We’re not like men. You’ve got to scratch the surface, peel the onion. Try again. Keep doing it until she’s got no choice but to see it’s you.”
I let out a short laugh. “That sounds exhausting.”
“It is,” she says, deadpan. Then she leans in slightly. “Look, I know what the people in this town think of me. Town gossip, super silly, does all the things, loves her hockey players. But at the end of the day, when my daughter’s happy, I’m happy. And I see her happy with you. That’s enough for me.”
The weight in my chest eases just a bit. “Thanks, Mary-Ellen. That means a lot.”
“Don’t mention it,” she says, patting my arm again. “Now go get your ice cream and stop overthinking. That’s my job.”
