Page 115 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

“I had standards early.”

My mother laughed, delighted, and the air filled with the sound of her as she’d been in my childhood: bright and wickedly amused by any foolishness presented with sincerity. I held the moment as still as I could inside myself.

Then she turned to me again, eyes suddenly sharp. “And have you considered joy?”

I blinked. “Joy?”

“Yes, darling. Joy.”

My father looked down into his tea, hiding a smile poorly.

“I’m pursuing the relics,” I said. “It’s important.”

My mother waved her hand as if dismissing a boring suitor. “But what is the point of bringing old things home if you have no one to show them to? You must share joy, or it grows stagnant and sits in corners.”

An image of Quinn rushed to the forefront of my mind.

Quinn, standing beside the service-dog photographs, saying the museum had the object and my family had the absence. Quinn laughing while I danced with Max. Quinn at her apartment door, tired and beautiful, eyes dropping to my mouth before I forced myself to step away.

I shut the thought down, but it refused to leave.

My mother leaned closer. “When will you stop all this busy working and find someone to love?”

“There it is,” my father murmured.

I shot an accusing glare his way. “You encouraged this.”

“I didn’t. I simply failed to prevent it.”

“Coward.”

“Married man,” he corrected.

My mother tapped the table. “Well?”

I sighed. “I’m occupied.”

“Everyone is occupied with something. What makes love so interesting is that it interrupts.”

“Mama, I’m not interested in being interrupted.”

She made a small, disapproving sound. “Nonsense. You were interrupted the day you were born and have been coping ever since.”

My father coughed into his tea.

I pressed two fingers against the bridge of my nose. “Mother.”

“What? It’s true.”

It was impossible not to smile. Unfortunately, smiling only encouraged her.

“Is there someone?” she asked.

“No.” I said it too quickly. My father’s eyes moved to my face. I ignored him.

My mother’s attention had already slipped, her gaze drifting toward the orchard. “I had a ribbon once. Red. No, gold. It was for the festival.”

My father shifted closer. “Which festival, love?”