Page 112 of Seeds of Christmas
“Thank you,” I manage. “That means a lot.”
“But, Rhiannon”—and there it is, the inevitable ‘but’—“I’m still your mother. And I’m still going to worry. This boy you’re with, thisCarter. You barely know him. And getting involved with someone right after a breakup?—”
“Mom.” I cut her off again, but this time it’s gentler. “I appreciate that you’re worried. But I need you to trust me to make my own decisions about my life. Even if they’re not the decisions you would make. Even if they turn out to be mistakes.”
“I just don’t want you to gethurt.” Her voice cracks a little as she says it and I wonder what kind of heartbreak my mother experienced before I was born.
“I know. But I’m twenty-two years old. I get to decide what risks are worth taking. And Carter”—I glance at him, and he’swatching me with those warm brown eyes that make me feel seen—“he’s not a risk I’m worried about. He’s probably the first thing I’ve been sure about in a long time.”
I hear her take a breath. When she speaks again, her voice is careful. “Tell me about him.”
It’s not acceptance. Not quite. But it’s not dismissal either.
So I do. I tell her about the research project, about Carter’s humor and his vulnerability and the way he makes me feel like I don’t have to be perfect.
And she listens.
We talk for another twenty minutes. It’s not perfect. She still slips into advice mode a few times, still suggests I should “take things slow” and “be careful.” But there’s also something different. A willingness to hear me. To try.
When we finally say goodbye, she says, “I love you, sweetheart.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
“Call me next week? I’d like to hear more about this research of yours,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice.
“I will,” I promise.
I end the call and just sit there for a second, phone in my lap, feeling wrung out and lighter at the same time.
Carter slides his laptop closed. “How did it go?”
“I did it.” The words come out shaky. “I actually stood up to her.”
“Yeah, you did.” He’s grinning at me. “You’re so brave.”
“I cried the whole time.”
“Crying doesn’t mean you weren’t brave. Brave means doing the scary thing even though you’re terrified.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “How do you feel?”
I think about it. “Exhausted. Relieved. Scared that nothing’s actually changed. But also...” I squeeze his hand. “Proud. I’m proud of myself.”
“You should be.”
“She apologized,” I say, still processing it. “I didn’t expect that.”
“People surprise us.”
He’s right. God, when did he get so good at this?
We sit there for a while longer, my hand in his, the coffee shop bustling around us. I feel raw and new, like I’ve shed a skin I didn’t know I was wearing.
“Hey,” Carter says eventually. “You know what you need?”
“What?”
“Terrible diner food and a milkshake. Comfort food. To celebrate.”
“Celebrate what? I just had the most stressful phone call of my life.”
