The question surprised her with its perceptiveness. Her mother wasn't usually observant about other people's feelings.
"Yes," she admitted. "More than anyone."
Daisy nodded slowly, something like acceptance settling over her features. "I suppose I understand that. The way you feel about him—that's how I've felt about every one of my husbands. At least at the beginning."
"This isn't like that."
"How do you know?"
It was a fair question. And for a moment, she felt the old fear stirring—the fear of following in her mother's footsteps, of mistaking infatuation for love, of waking up one day to find that the certainty had faded into boredom.
But then she thought about last night. About waking up in his arms that morning. About the way he'd looked at her when she'd said she wasn't ready to say she loved him—not disappointed, not frustrated, just… patient. Certain. Willing to wait.
"Because he's not asking me to change," she said finally. "He's not expecting me to give up my shop, or move somewhere else, or become a different person. He likes who I am. All of it. Even the parts I've always been ashamed of."
Daisy was quiet for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, she smiled. It was a wry, self-aware expression that Marigold had rarely seen on her mother's face.
"I'm not very good at that, am I? Liking people as they are."
"No," she said honestly. "You're not."
"I always think I can see what they could be. If they just tried a little harder, reached a little further…" Daisy sighed. "I suppose I've done that with you too."
"You have."
"I'm sorry."
The words landed like a small earthquake. She couldn't remember the last time her mother had apologized—really apologized, without qualifications or excuses.
"You—" She swallowed hard. "Thank you."
Daisy shrugged, looking almost embarrassed. "I'm not going to pretend I'll suddenly become a different person. I'm fifty-three years old, Marigold. This is who I am. But I can… try. To see you more clearly. To let you be who you want to be, even if it's not who I would have chosen."
It wasn't a grand reconciliation. It wasn't a promise that everything would be different from now on. But it was something—a crack in the wall that had always stood between them. A beginning.
"I'd like that," she said softly.
They sat in silence for a moment, the morning light shifting across the room. Downstairs, someone opened the door to the shop—probably her part-time assistant, coming in to water the plants.
"I suppose the retreat is off the table, then," Daisy said eventually.
"It was never on the table."
"A girl can dream." But there was no real disappointment in her voice. If anything, she sounded almost relieved, as if being told no had freed her from an obligation she hadn't entirely wanted in the first place.
"What will you do instead?"
Daisy considered the question. "I don't know. Go back to Chicago, probably. There's a man there—lovely man, very attentive—who's been asking me to dinner. Maybe I'll finally say yes."
"That sounds like a better plan than a spiritual retreat in Sedona."
"Perhaps." Daisy rose from the sofa, stretching elegantly. "Though I do think I'd look rather fetching in flowing robes, communing with crystals."
She laughed despite herself. "You would. But you'd get bored within a week."
"Probably." Her mother smiled—a genuine smile this time, warm and rueful. "I'm not built for consistency, darling. Never have been."
"I know."
