Page 81 of Three Months Yesterday

I make my way toward the front door, my socked feet quiet on the hardwood. Through the curtained window I can see the silhouette of a woman. The shadow is slight and there’s something in her hands, a dish of some kind. And I know before I open the door who it is.

Taking a deep breath, I hold it for a second and let it out.

When I open the door, my mother stands on the front porch, a casserole dish cradled against her chest like a peace offering. Her coat is buttoned wrong, the top looped through the second hold, and her hair is pulled back in a clip like I haven’t seen it before. She looks nervous, and that’s the thing that strikes me most. Ruby Hawthorne doesn’t get nervous.

“Hi, darling.”

“Mom.” The word isn’t harsh, but it’s not warm either. It’s just a word—flat and careful—the way you handle something you’re not sure will hold.

Her smile falters for a second before she fixes it back in place. “I brought you dinner.”

Over her shoulder, I see movement at the cottage. Dad is standing on the porch with Beckett, both of them turned toward my house. When Dad catches my eye, he gives me a sad smile, one that says I’m sorry and I don’t know what else to do. He doesn’t wait for any acknowledgement before he disappears through the cottage door. Beckett stays where he is, his body turned to the side leaving room for Dad to move past. His eyes aren’t on my mother, they’re watching me, searching for something. Most likely a sign that I’m okay or if I need him to come rescue me. I feel the questions in his gaze from here.

Mom follows my line of sight. “That Beckett is a good man.”

My gaze flies back to her for a quick second before I look back at Beckett, offering him a small nod to let him know I’m okay. It might be a half-truth at the moment, but it’s enough. He returns it with a dip of his chin but still doesn’t move from his open doorway.

“Come on in.”

She steps past me into the house, and I close the door behind her. We walk to the kitchen without talking, the casserole dish the only thing between us. She sets it on the counter and pulls the foil back. The smell hits me immediately. Chicken, broccoli, and cheese. It’s the same casserole she makes every birthday, every illness, every time I need to be reminded I’m loved through food instead of words.

“Your favorite,” she says, like I haven’t noticed.

“Thank you,” I murmur, my gaze locked on the dish. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.” She moves around my kitchen like she’s been doing it her whole life, which, in a way, she has. She helped me unpack when I moved in, decided where the spatulas went, and which drawer the measuring cups made the most sense. She knows where everything is. As such, she opens a cabinet and pulls down a few plates without asking. “How are things at the inn?”

“Good. Steady. We’re booked until Valentine’s Day, which is nice for this time of year.”

“That’s wonderful, darling. I always worry about the slow season.”

“We’re fine, Mom.” The words are a little exasperated, but I know she’s not here to talk about the inn, not that it stops her.

She nods, still moving around the kitchen, finding small tasks for her hands. I want to shake her and make her tell me what she’s really doing here, but I let her carry the conversation the way she needs to, answering questions about the inn and the guests, whether the heater in the Albert Room is still making that noise. I give her the details and she absorbs them like she’s filling a reservoir, building up to whatever she’s actually come to say.

It happens when she turns to the fridge, most likely moving to pull out the iced tea she knows is in the door.

She freezes mid-air, her hand reaching for the handle but her eyes are somewhere else. On the ultrasound pictures I taped to the fridge the day I got them, right next to the magnet of the inn and the photo of Jackson at the pumpkin patch. The black and white image of a profile—a curved nose and a tiny hand pressed against a cheek.

Mom’s fingers find it first, gently tracing the outline of his face. Her touch is so reverent I feel my throat tighten.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, her voice soft in that way it does when she’s trying not to cry. “How far along are you now?” Her eyes don’t leave the image in front of her, and I don’t blame her.

“Twenty-four weeks.” If I’m right about the day we conceived, it’s twenty-four weeks exactly. According to my app, he’s the size of an ear of corn now.

Mom draws in a breath. “Have you felt the baby kick yet? It’s right around now you might.”

“I’ve felt him move. Flutters, mostly, but no real kicks yet.”

Her hand stills on the picture and her gaze swings toward mine. “You’re having a boy?”

I didn’t mean to say it. The pronoun slipped out, easy and natural, the way they’ve been living in my head for weeks and the way I talk about him with Aiden and Beckett.

“Yeah, it’s a boy.”

Mom breaks. Her face crumples first, her mouth pressing into a line that can’t hold, and then the tears come fast and messy. She presses her hand over her mouth and her shoulders shake. All I can do is stand here in my kitchen and watch my mother fall apart over a picture on my fridge.

It’s not because I don’t want to comfort her. I do. It’s because I’ve never seen her like this. Not when her parents died or when we said goodbye to the family dog she loved practically as much as she loved her children. Never once have I seen her break so completely.