Page 82 of Three Months Yesterday

“I’m sorry.” Her voice cracks. “I’m so sorry, Madison. I know it’s not an excuse, but I was caught off guard. All I could think about was how sad it was that this baby wouldn’t have a mom and a dad.”

Indignation rises in my chest and I open my mouth to scream, but she doesn’t let me.

“I know how stupid that was.” She shakes her head, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I know that doesn’t matter. All that matters is how much you love this baby and how much all of us are going to love this baby. And Madison, I already do. I already love him so much, simply because he’s part of you.” Her voice breaks on the last word. “I’m so sorry, Madison. I love you and I just want you to be happy.”

I wish we could go back to Sunday night and she could say all these words then, when they mattered most, but time travel doesn’t exist and you can’t take back the words already said.

My gaze shifts over Mom’s shoulder, to the same ultrasound that broke her. It would be ridiculous to think I won’t make mistakes as a mother. That I don’t make mistakes now as a daughter or sister. To pretend otherwise would be living in a world of fantasy and I don’t want to live in that world.

Mom’s words don’t change what she did, but they prove she knows she made a mistake and how can I not forgive her for that.

I close the space between us, taking her hand in mine. “I’m happy, Mom.”

“You are?”

“I am.” I swallow. “But I’m also terrified.”

She squeezes my hand, silently asking me to continue.

“Most women get at least eight months to figure out how to be a mom. I found out so late I’m getting half that. I’m running out of time, and I don’t know what I’m doing. Every time I think about it, I feel like I can’t breathe.”

Mom laughs, the sound a little wet and broken, but it’s real. “Oh, Mads.” She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter how much time you have. Once that baby gets here, you’re going to realize that years wouldn’t be enough time. You can’t figure out how to be a mom, it just happens. And even then, you’re going to screw up.”

I laugh too, because she’s right and because the tears blurring my vision make it impossible to hold anything back. “That’s the most honest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“It’s the truest thing I know.”

She pulls me in and I press my face against her shoulder the way I used to when I was small enough to fit there. My belly presses between us, and for a second I wonder if the baby can feel it—the pressure, the warmth.

“I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too, darling. So much.”

We stay like that for a long moment before I pull back, wiping my eyes with the heel of my hand. I look at her, at the mascara smudged under her eyes and the clip half falling out of her hair, and decide I don’t want to waste this opportunity, not when this is one of the most honest conversations we’ve ever had.

“Can I tell you something?” I ask tentatively.

“Of course.”

“The backhanded compliments…” She blinks and I keep going before I lose my nerve. “The ones about me being an old soul and my love of history.”

Her brows furrow. “Those aren’t backhanded compliments, Madison. They’re just little quirks, things we all love about you.”

“Mom, that right there, the ‘little quirks,’ that’s a backhanded compliment,” I say gently, the way you say something you’ve been holding for a long time. “It sounds like a compliment, but underneath it’s pointing out a way I don’t fit. I know you’re not trying to be hurtful, but that’s still how they feel.”

Mom stares at me and I watch her face shift, the surprise giving way to something heavier, something like understanding and sorrow.

“I didn’t know.” Her voice is small, and I hate that I’ve caused it. “It was never my intention. I swear, Madison. I know that doesn’t matter if you’ve been feeling hurt by it, but I promise to pay more attention. I never want you to feel like that.” She reaches up and smooths a piece of hair behind my ear, her fingers trembling. “I love you, darling.”

“I love you too, Mom.”

She holds my face for a second, her eyes wet and steady, and then she lets go and turns back to the counter. Picking up the casserole dish, she moves to the oven, opening it with a dish towel and sliding the casserole inside with a kind of efficiency that says her body is on autopilot while her heart is still catching up.

“That guy of yours is a good one,” she says, almost more to herself than to me.

“What?” I ask, afraid I misheard her.

“Your man, he’s a good one.”