“Dexter, you self-sabotage at every turn. The moment things start going well, you walk away. You walked out of your marriage, your job at the firm, and ignored every subsequent employment offer for…this?” She spread her arms as if to encompass the house, the lake, the town, and the whole damn state of Vermont.
“Yes. I did,” I replied calmly. “And I’m very happy here.”
“Are you? Or do you just think you are? A new partner and a child on the way is fodder for a sappy romance novel, but reality is a far different beast.” She sharpened her claws, her eyes narrowing as she moved in for the kill. “Love doesn’t last, and children are more work than you could ever imagine. Do you actually want to be a single parent…like I was? No, this is worse. You’ll be isolated in the forest with a child and no family. My God, Dexter. I’m giving you a way out. Take it. Please.”
This form of love was awkward and aggressive. It wasjudgmental, demanding, and occasionally vicious. And yet, somehow I understood this was the only way my mother knew how to express emotional connection. Through brute force, bullying, and a measure of guilt. It was off-putting for sure, but this was Margaret Sandringham being vulnerable, showing me that she cared.
“This is what I want, Mom. I’m happy here, and I’d love it if you could be happy for me.”
“How? Do donuts make you happy? Does flag football make you happy? Does that giant lumberjack make you happy?”
I smiled crookedly. “Yes.”
“I don’t understand. I can give you a corner shop in a prestigious neighborhood, a house nearby, access to the best schools in the area. You could commute, keep both shops, and?—”
“Mom. Stop.” I leaned on the counter, locking her gaze and continuing. “I appreciate the generous offer. I do. And I know it comes from a good place, but you don’t listen to me. You haven’t listened to me since my concussion. That was eighteen years ago! It’s like you think I lost the ability to think clearly, and it doesn’t occur to you to consider that I can be trusted to decide what’s right for me. Was the concussion a terrible thing? Sure, it messed me up and stole years from me. I woke up in a haze and made a few choices based on whatyouwanted for me…like Jenn. We should never have gotten married. Admit it.”
“Okay, but?—”
“No, it’s not okay. I was never going to be happy there. I tried, though. I tried. And then I tried something new and ended up here. Sure, this town lacks polish, but damn, it’s got a lot of heart. I love it. Maybe you don’t and never could, but at some point, you’re gonna have to trust me to know my own mind. And maybe even be happy for me.”
She worked her jaw in anger or frustration—I couldn’t tell. “So I’m going to lose you to this place. I won’t know my grandchild.”
I threw my hands in the air. “For fuck’s sake, Mom. You’re not losing anything. Iwantyou to be part of my life. Iwantyou toknow your grandchild. But you have to be willing to listen and accept what you might not always understand.”
“Sounds easy enough.” The sarcasm was muted by the tears welling in her eyes.
“It doesn’t have to be hard.”
She inclined her chin. “When is the baby due?”
“December fourth.”
“That’s soon.” She swiped her nose daintily. “Boy or girl?”
“I don’t know.” I plucked a tissue from the box on the counter and handed it to her. “Would you like to see the nursery?”
“Yes.”
Viggo and I had painted the nursery in a soft gray and hung animal prints on the walls. The geometric patterns on the drapery and the rug gave the room a little pizzazz. The natural woods from the dresser-changing table and the built-in bookshelf with the rainbow painted over it looked gorgeous.
“This is very…nice,” Mom commented.
“Thanks. There are a few pieces missing—a rocking chair, the bedding, and changing table essentials—but our friends are hosting a baby shower in a couple weeks, and I’ve been advised to save a few things for them to buy.”
“Hmm. And the crib?”
“It’s coming. Viggo has it in his workshop. He’s running it through safety checks or something. Probably to make sure the parts I made aren’t defective,” I joked.
She ran a manicured finger across the dresser, cocking her head quizzically. “The parts you made?”
“Yeah. I made the crib.” My grin spread across my face unchecked. “Well…Viggo did most of it. He’s incredible.”
I pointed out his woodwork contributions throughout the room, pleased on Viggo’s behalf by my mother’s awed expression.
“Oh, my. He’s quite talented.”
“He really is,” I gushed. “Viggo makes custom birdhouses and sells them at a boutique in Fallbrook and online, too. They’re insanely beautiful. I bet they’d do well at any shop on Kercheval.”
