Page 158 of My Merry Mistake
Quent shakes his head and sits back down.
“Where’s everyone else?” I ask, pushing Boone over one last time.
“West is out back,” Pop says. “Hudson and Hattie aren’t here yet.”
“The girls are here,” Quent says. “And they expect piggyback rides and lots of presents from their rich uncle.”
I laugh. “Guess I need to go shopping.”
“Christmas is tomorrow, dude.” Quent shakes his head like the disapproving older brother he is, but I ignore him and walk into the kitchen where Momma is kneading dough.
She looks up at me, caution in her eyes, but I smile and nod at her.
“Buttons and bows?” I ask when I spot the ingredients on the counter.
“Your favorite,” she says. Then quietly adds, “The way to your heart was always through your stomach.”
I lean against the counter. “You’re not wrong there, Momma.”
She stops. “I should’ve told you.”
“Yeah. You should’ve told me,” I say.
She nods, going back to the dough. “I was afraid you wouldn’t understand.”
“I don’t.” I pour myself a cup of coffee, something I never drink this late in the morning unless I’m home, where there’s always a fresh pot on the counter. “That woman?—”
She turns and faces me. “Has done her time.”
I scoff and look away, thinking the rest of her life wouldn’t be enough time. I have to remind myself, again, to forgive. I’m bad at this. I look at my mom. “Did she send you a letter too?”
“She sent us all letters, Skip,” Momma says. “Every single person in the family. You think you were the only one she had to apologize to?”
That actually never occurred to me.
“And how each of you kids—and your father and I—responded to her was everyone’s own personal decision.” She looks at me. “I don’t want to live my life angry and bitter. Do you?”
I close my eyes and force air into my lungs, her comment reinforcing my lakeside decision. “No. I don’t.”
She takes a towel in her hands, cleans them off, and then reaches up and pats my cheek. “I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you about it first. I always planned to—” She looks away, puts her hands back on the towel, squeezing and wringing it. “I didn’t know how to bring it up, but I should’ve found a way.”
“You’re right,” I say. “You should’ve.”
Her face changes. “Is this the way it’s gonna be? You gonna be mad at me now too?” Her tone has thatMomma-didn’t-raise-a-foolsound to it.
I immediately straighten up. “No, ma’am.” Then, after a pause, I add, “I just?—”
I shake my head, not knowing how to finish.
She takes my hand and pulls me into a tight hug. “I know, Skip. I know. It’s hard . . . but I got you.”
I hesitate a long moment, then hug her back.
She holds me the way only she can, and when I exhale, some of today’s anger dissipates, if only a bit.
“Uncle Finn!” Quent’s oldest, Libby, rushes into the room and attaches herself to my right leg, while her sister Jordy grabs my left. It’s a game we play every time I see them, one they never seem to tire of.
I walk around the house like Frankenstein, dragging them behind me until my quads burn or until Momma calls them in for a meal, whichever comes first. On my way through the kitchen, I tousle my little sister’s hair.
