An hour later, showered and changed, I make my way to the parking lot where I told Caden to meet me. They're waiting by my mother’s car, all bundled in jackets against the Minnesota cold.
“That was incredible!” Travis launches himself at me the second I'm close enough. “That goal was so cool. Can you teach me how to do that?”
I catch him, surprised by the hug and the genuine enthusiasm. “Maybe. If you promise to practice your wrist shot first.”
“I will, I promise.”
Caden is more reserved, but his eyes are shining. “Seriously, Liam. That was amazing.”
“Thanks.” I look at my mother, who's hanging back, uncertain. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, sweetheart.” Her smile is tentative. “You played beautifully.”
The endearment feels wrong, coming from her. Like she's claiming a closeness we don't have.
But I force myself to smile. “Thanks for coming. You guys hungry?”
We end up at some chain restaurant near the hotel, the kind with too many options on the menu and booth seats that squeak when you move. It's not fancy, but the boys don't care. They're too busy peppering me with questions about hockey, about the season, about what it's like to play in the playoffs.
“Is it scarier?” Travis asks around a mouthful of burger.
“It's intense,” I say. “Every shift feels important. But that's part of what makes it fun.”
“Do you ever get nervous?”
“All the time. But you learn to use that energy. Turn it into focus.”
My mother sits quietly through most of dinner, just watching us interact. It's strange, seeing her here, being part of this moment. Part of me wants to reach across the table, to bridge whatever gap has grown between us over the years.
But the hurt is still there.
After we eat, Travis spots an arcade attached to the restaurant and drags Caden over, both of them begging for quarters. I hand over a twenty and watch them run off, and I’m suddenly alone with my mother.
The silence stretches, awkward and heavy.
“You're not returning my calls,” she says finally, her voice quiet.
Stress from the day makes me more honest than I usually am. “That's because I don't want to talk to you.”
She flinches.
“What do you want me to say, Mom? That everything's fine? That I'm not still angry about how you chose John and the boys over me?” The words spill out. “Because I am angry. I've been angry for years.”
“We're family.”
I lean forward, unable to stop now that I've started. “You didn't act like family when you let John bully me. You never once defended me.”
“He was trying to give you structure,” she says, but her voice wavers. “You needed a firm hand after your father left.”
“I neededyou.” The words come out louder than I intended, and I have to force myself to lower my voice. “I needed my mother to tell me I mattered. That losing Dad wasn't my fault.”
My hands are shaking now, years of repressed hurt and anger finally finding their way out.
“Instead, you made a new family. A better family. And I was just, what? The reminder of your failed first marriage? The problem child you pawned off on John to fix?”
“That's not fair,” she whispers, tears streaming down her face.
“None of it was fair, Mom.” I'm crying too now, and I hate it. I hate that she can still get to me like this. “You want to talk about family? About acting like we're family? Then answer this: Where were you when I needed you most?”
