Page 68 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

Jaws drop. Gasps escape. Louisa mutters a barely audible Holy shit. Haley takes hold of my hand. We all stare at our mother like we’re waiting for a volcano to blow.

Her face is flushed, but she pastes on a smile as she clasps her hands in her lap, crosses her ankles, and steals a look at the clerks, who are desperately trying to appear busy.

“Why didn’t you just say that?” she pushes out, her tone polite but her jaw tight.

“I did. We tried.” Riley takes Emil’s hand and draws it into his lap. “You didn’t listen.”

Our mom’s jaw works as though she’s replaying old conversations, searching for evidence that he’s wrong, that he never told her anything. I’m sure he did tell her, but she’s a force of nature, and he’s a force of sweetness and light. In fact, I think this is the first time I’ve ever heard him say fuck. It’s definitely the first time I’ve heard him stand up to our mom like this.

She turns to the four of us. “Anyone else have something they want to tell me?”

We all exchange nervous looks, as though we’re wondering if anyone’s brave enough. I’m not sure I am, but before I can decide, Eleanor throws up her hands and steps forward.

“Joshua is too old for the toys you keep giving him. He wants to be treated like a seven-year-old and not like a baby. Willow is very particular about how her clothes fit, so please stop buying those, too. She doesn’t like what you give her, and she gets very stressed about having to pretend when you keep asking her about them. And Aiden didn’t make the softball team or the soccer team or the basketball team, so the less you keep talking about sports to him, the better.”

Our mom reels in surprise, but before she can react, Haley steps forward.

“Mischa got laid off last month. He’s enjoying being a stay-at-home dad for now, but we’re still figuring out what it means for us, and that might include selling our house.”

I draw her into a side hug, much like she did for me earlier. “I’m so sorry.”

She shrugs in my embrace, and as our mom opens her mouth to reply, Louisa jumps in.

“Reuben and I eloped in Las Vegas on New Year’s Eve!”

Chaos erupts, sputters of astonishment mixed with hugs and congratulations. This is officially the weirdest family gathering I’ve ever been part of. It’s also incredibly cathartic, seeing perfect facades crumble as everyone admits something they’ve been holding back, not wanting to hurt our mother’s feelings and not wanting to deal with the inevitable fallout.

As the noise and shuffling peter out, all eyes turn to me.

“Well?” our mom asks me. “I assume you have something to say, too.”

I do, of course, and so, bolstered by the support of my siblings, I go ahead and tell her about Grams’s notebooks, the conversation with Kate, and the dream Dylan and I share.

When I finish, she looks at each of us in turn.

Riley, Eleanor, Haley, Louisa, and me.

Then she grabs her purse and marches out of the bridal salon.

Chapter Twenty-Three

My dad’s watching a basketball game on the living room TV when Eleanor drops me off after the five of us went out for late lunch/early drinks to both celebrate and commiserate. My parents’ house is spotless, like always, though it’s hardly a showpiece. They’ve lived here for over forty years, and when my mom got her inheritance, they decided they’d use the money for traveling, not new furniture and trendy renovations. Everything’s nice, but also comfortable and well used.

I step up behind the sectional as I remove my peacoat. “How’s she doing?”

“She thinks her children all hate her, so not the best. But you know your mom. She’s quick to react, but she always comes around.” He pats my hand where it rests near his shoulder.

I almost take a seat next to him, allowing myself a trial run of the conversation I need to have with my mom, but she’s upset, and I promised my siblings I wouldn’t put this off, so after hanging up my coat and scarf, I pad down the hall in sock feet and knock on my parents’ closed bedroom door. No one shouts, Go away, which I take as permission to peek in. My mom is curled up on the bed, watching what looks like a midcentury British mystery, her usual comfort fare. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and several wadded tissues are on the floor by her side of the bed. Her tendency to go into full-scale martyr mode when her feelings are hurt annoys me since anyone else wrestling with hurt feelings is always being “too sensitive,” but some moments call for smashing things. Others call for compassion, and this is clearly the latter.

She doesn’t move when I slide onto the bed behind her, sitting upright against my dad’s pillows and watching the show for a minute so this doesn’t feel like another ambush.

“Everyone’s sorry,” I say. “We shouldn’t have sprung any of that on you. Not like that.”

She continues blinking at the screen, but I know she’s listening.

“We know you want what’s best for us, but you need to let us make our own decisions and maybe pull back on the shame and judgment if we make choices you don’t like.”

She huffs at that, rolling over to face me. “So if you want to walk out in front of a moving car, I’m supposed to stand by and watch you do it? Or if Riley and Louisa want to throw away their chances to have a beautiful wedding when they’ll only regret it in years to come, or Haley wants to lose that gorgeous house because her husband doesn’t feel like getting a job, or you want to give up your career to play at being a novelist, I’m supposed to be fine with that?”