“This only covers through elementary school,” she said, plunking them on the dining table. “But we’ve got to start somewhere.”
She served up the lasagna, and we all sat at the table together as my mom opened one of the oversized albums. I watched as she pointed at pictures and recounted stories I’d heard dozens of times before, while Luca listened with rapt attention. He didn’t mind the tangents she went on that spiderwebbed out into tales woven together by the threads of our lives. Including one that was cut impossibly short. He encouraged her to keep talking and sharing.
That was something most didn’t do. In the early days after Brennan’s passing, people were happy to hear about him. The first few days were an acceptable time to grieve. But after the first fewmonths, people tended to get weird about it. It was like they thought death was contagious. Like chicken pox or the flu. Or maybe it just forced them to confront their own mortality and acknowledge that one day, they too would become memories that would make people uncomfortable, until one day people stopped talking about them at all.
Luca didn’t realize the magnitude of what he did that night—the gift he gave us both. The freedom to reminisce and remember minus the risk of making someone uncomfortable. Not once did he give us a pitying stare. He sat with us in our love and grief for my brother without empty platitudes or forced positivity. For one evening, it was as though Brennan was seated at the table alongside the three of us. And to me…that was everything.
“The Fainting Goat Coffee Shop.”My mom read the name printed on the gray shirt to Luca and me in the nearly empty aisles of The Thrift Stop the last Thursday of January. Luca had started joining us on some of our weekly thrift store outings since I’d introduced them. We’d had dinner together a few times too, listening to records and playing games. After Mom opened up to him about Brennan, he’d begun to feel safe sharing pieces of his own life, his troubled upbringing, and the future he now held hope for.
“That can’t be a real place, right?” Luca asked, inspecting the illustrated goats.
“It says Spring Hill, Tennessee,” she replied, tossing it in our cart. “Sounds like we need to check it out.”
I wasn’t sure what warmed my heart more—how much my mother adored Luca or the way he took to her. Over the last month, I’d witnessed the man I loved get to become a boy again. He hadn’t had parents that loved him the way they should have, but my mother did. She welcomed him with open arms, and there was something healing about their relationship—a void they filled for each other. He was the son she didn’t get to see grow up, and she became the mother he’d always deserved.
“So, how are you feeling about your show at The Bluebird?” my mom asked as we continued to peruse the shirts. “Are you getting excited?”
He blew out a breath. “I’m actually nervous as hell.”
“You’re going to be great.” I gave his arm an encouraging squeeze. “The world won’t know what hit ’em.”
“You’re biased,” he said, hooking his arm over my shoulder and kissing the top of my head.
I grinned up at him. “Maybe, but it also happens to be true.”
They had finished the album the week before, and the first thing he’d done was play it for me and my mom in its entirety. She wept through multiple songs like “Death Row” and the title track “Coming Home.” When she found out he wrote it for me, she cried even harder.
“What if my stuff is too different for Midnight in Dallas fans?” he asked.
“Then you’ll find new ones,” Mom answered with unshakable confidence as she continued to sift through the shirts. “Your music is going to mean so much to so many, Luca. I just think about all the people out there like you, like Brennan. People who need to know they’re not alone, and you’re going to tell them that.”
“She’s right, you know,” I agreed. “You’re going to bring hope to a lot of people. Not only with your music but with yourlife.Look how much you’ve overcome…the work you’ve done to get where you are now.”
My mom nodded. “You’re going to show everyone it's never too late to start over. That it’s okay to ask for help.”
“I feel like I’m the last person anyone should be looking up to,” he admitted, sliding a hanger along the rack.
“That’s not true,” I insisted, but my mother touched my arm as if to sayI’ve got this.
She gripped his shoulders and turned him to face her.
“I want you to listen to me,” she said, her voice soft and sincere. “You don’t even realize how special you are, Luca Sterling. What a miracle it is that you’re still here. I know what you’ve fought through—what you’restillfighting through—hasn’t been easy, but you’re here, in spite of it all. There are so many who aren’t. Every day we lose more and more people…people who don’t stay because they can’t ask for help. Because they think they’re beyond help.”
Tears filled her eyes and mine. I knew she was picturing my brother—one of the beautiful souls who hadn’t been able to stay. Not because he wasn’t strong enough. Not because his life mattered less. We just didn’t know how to spot the signs that he needed extra support, and he didn’t have people, especially men, he could look to for guidance. Mental health was still stigmatized, but it was far worse when Brennan and I were growing up. Back then, it was even more frowned upon for men to show any signs of softness or emotion.
“You areexactlythe person others should be looking up to,” she continued. “Because you can show them vulnerability isn’t a flaw. You’ve taken yours and created something beautiful with it. And I’m not just talking about your music. I’m talking about your life.”
He chewed the inside of his cheek, emotion misting his eyes.
“Look at this beautiful life you’re making for yourself, sweetheart.” She cupped his face in her hands. “You got knocked down, time and time again, but baby, you’re still swinging. And you’re gonna show others they can keep swinging too.”
He wrapped her small frame into a bear hug, nearly swallowing her whole, then he drew me in too. The three of us stood there, holding each other in the aisle. There was no one around to see, but I wouldn’t have cared if there was.
“You’re still coming, right, Mama Laurel?” he asked, using the nickname he’d affectionately given her as he pulled away.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she answered with a proud smile as she returned to browsing.
We continued our treasure hunt until my mother squealed with delight.
