There’s something in the tone of her voice that makes me pause as I toe off my boots by the door.
“I brought you guys dinner.”
That groove is still between her eyes as she watches me. “You didn’t need to do that, Stevie.”
“I know,” I say. “I wanted to.”
She sighs, shoulders falling. “Well, thank you. Come on into the kitchen.”
I follow her down the hall, taking in the familiarity of the house. The candles may not be apple scented any more, and the furniture may have been rearranged, but the photos on the wall are the same—the rare family vacation; my old yearbook photo with braces and a frizzy braid, my cheeks freckled from a summer spent in the sun; my parents’ wedding photo, their smiles wide; them standing in front of the house, Mom holding a set of keys, Dad holding an apple, grinning at her as she cheeses for the camera.
The kitchen is empty when we step inside. I smell coffee warming in the pot on the counter. Dappled sunshine spearsthrough the windows, and I notice the curtains are dusty. I make a mental note to dust and wash them this week.
“Stevie,” Mom says, setting the basket of eggs down on the counter. “We need to talk.”
There’s guilt in her voice, and regret too. It makes my eyes snap from the curtains to look at her face. The expression there mirrors the tone of her voice.
“Let’s sit.”
She motions to the table, and after putting the lasagna beside the eggs on the counter, I sit down in the seat that has always been mine, at least until Grandma moved in. She has a hard time maneuvering between the wall and table, so I started taking the seat in the corner, but today I sit where I did every day of my life until I moved out, and every time I came over.
There’s crumbs on the table my mom would have never allowed growing up. She’s always been a stickler about tidiness, but things have slipped through the cracks since she’s taken over caring for Grandma.
I watch as she moves around the kitchen, pulling down mismatched mugs from the cabinet and filling them with coffee.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
She comes back to the table and sits across from me, pushing a mug in my direction. I wrap my hands around it, letting the heat seep into my fingers. For the first time, I realize how frail my mom has gotten in the last few years. She’s not old by any means, only in her early sixties, but in the last few years she’s lost weight and wrinkled more. The veins in her hands are visible. I wonder how I missed it, when she’s been right in front of me.
“Stevie,” Mom starts. “I’ve always appreciated your loyalty, your love for this family and this town.” She clears her throat and looks down at the tale, picking at a grain in the wood. “I know you had plans back in high school. Travel, college. And Ihate that you had to give that up.” Her eyes focus back on mine, holding steady. “I hated it, but I was always thankful for the sacrifice you made for us.”
“Mom—”
She cuts me off with a lifted hand. “Over the years, I’ve watched you give us more and more of yourself. And I didn’t know how to change it, if I even needed to. But lately…” she sighs, looking up at the ceiling as if searching for the right words.
My stomach churns, and my palms are slick.
When her gaze lands on mine again, it’s harder. More determined. “Stevie, I need you to live your life.”
It’s not what I expected her to say, and the words hit me like a slap.
“What does that mean?”
She looks even more pained by my question. “You’re always here, Stevie. And when you’re not, you’re calling or texting.” She lets out a long sigh. “I know it’s mine and your dad’s fault. We asked too much of you, and you kept giving and giving and giving, but it has to stop now.” Her voice sounds choked. “I need you to…” She stops, like she doesn’t know how to finish the sentence.
Heat creeps up my neck and into my cheeks, feeling like a sunburn. I’m still reeling from the moment with Jack last night and the conversation with him this morning, the rejection burning in my chest. My mom’s is worse though, deep and aching, carving out something essential inside of me.
Words stick in my throat, and I struggle to get something comprehensible out.
Finally, I ask, “Where is this coming from?”
She looks so defeated, like this conversation is hurting her as much as it’s hurting me. She rubs at a spot on her chest. “Wren mentioned—”
Blood roars in my ears. “What?” It comes out sharper than I intended, and Mom looks taken aback.
“Stevie,” she says, but I cut her off.
“She had no right.” I spit each word.
