Page 108 of In a Word, Yes

“Meaning your father and I are ... having a conversation about what the future might look like. That’s probably more than I should say for the moment.” Mom shivers. “Also, it’s freezing out here.”

***

“What’s this about?” Mom asks once we’re back inside. She’s flipping through my lovely new hardback ofPinot and Peril, a gift from Steph Stoneback.

“Oh. It’s about a CIA operative who—”

“No, Lu, I mean this inscription.”

Thanks for helping me find my moxie. Keep writing!—Steph

“Crazy story. I’ll tell you all about it sometime.”

“Why not now?”

“Because right now I have to figure out what to do with this ... air fryer? Mom, this looks spendy. Why so many gifts lately? Did you win the lottery?”

“You are going to love that. Your father and I have one, and it’s just perfect for the two of us. Perfect for the needs of a ... small family.” Mom lets her words trail off mid-sentence. We both hear the implication—Chase and I are only two. The smallest size a family can be.

My heart drops to my stomach. Because what goes unspoken is that we both, very recently, allowed hope to bloom that this might change.

Mom takes my face in her hands. “Oh, Lu Lu. I just ... I just wish I could somehow make up for all the ways I’ve fallen short as a mother. If I could go back and—”

“Oh, Mama. That’s not necessary. Really.” It isn’t fair to chain my mother to old resentments. I need to set her free, for my own healing and hers. The last thing I want is to keep my mom in some kind of emotional prison. Mom was only ever doing the best she could. I get that now.

How can I begrudge the ways she turned her pain in a positive direction? Maybe it didn’t always helpme, but it helped so many. Blazing a trail for other women in ministry. All the heat she’s taken over the years, speaking her heart and mind.

Carly Montgomery is a hero of the faith.

Our family broke, and we all coped with it in our imperfect ways.

“While we’re at it, though,” I say, “I apologize for the ways I’ve fallen short as a daughter.”

“Well, that’s about the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. Besides, aren’t we all in the process of being made new?”

“Mmm. Yeah. I suppose our stories aren’t meant to be so neatly defined with beginning, middle, and end.” Which goes against human logic. Not to mention classic story structure.

“You got it, girl. It’s more like we begin, and we begin again, and then we begin again.”

Mom opens her arms. I step into them. And we hug, and we rock, and then we hug some more.

When at last we part, we keep the connection going through clasped hands.

I’ve grown to love looking into my mother’s face close-up. Every line an arrow, pointing to the people she’s loved, pain she’s borne, times she’s laughed.

“I wonder,” Mom says, “if you and I have both been feeling stuck because we’re not meant to write an ending, but rather a new beginning.”

Forty-Two

peripeteia(n.): a sudden or unexpected reversal of circumstances or situation, especially in a literary work

On Thursday, after eating lunch on my favorite library bench, I return to the office just as Sam is leaving.

“Oh, hey, Montgomery,” he says. “Do me a favor and go ask Meg if there’s something you can take off her plate. She’s got an impending interview that’s way more your speed than hers.”

“And what speed is that?”

He doesn’t respond. Only chuckles on his way out the door.