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“I…uh….I….” There was nothing I could say that wouldn’t hurt my mother, and that was something I would never do.

She opened the cabinet, took out two wine glasses, and filled them from the box of Merlot she liked to keep beside the coffee maker. Handing one to me, she gestured for me to sit, then took the chair across the round kitchen table from me.

“You never ask me anything about your father,” she said.

And now I was more than just reeling. “He left. What was there to ask? He walked away from us, never gave a damn about how I grew up or what was happening to me. Why should I want to know about a man who never cared enough to want to know anything about me?”

Mom toyed with her wineglass. “My parents were in their late forties when they had me. It was a late marriage for them both, and neither had children, so I was quite the surprise.”

I knew this story. Grandma and Grandpa were wonderful, but I only had vague memories of them. Both had died before I’d first grade. Even though they’d hardly had enough money for themselves, they’d always slipped me a little cash when I’d come over, and their Christmas and birthday presents had been heartfelt. Grandma loved to tell me the story of how she’d met my grandfather. He’d come into the diner where she’d been waitressing since she was in her twenties. Through the years, they’d fallen in love over bacon and cheese omelets and black coffee. She was forty and he was forty-two when they’d gotten married, a later-in-life first love for them both. And she’d nearly given birth to my mother before realizing she was pregnant, thinking that she was going through menopause instead.

“I met your father my senior year in high school. He was a junior at a neighboring high school, and so handsome.” Mom’s voice grew soft. “He had brown hair and hazel eyes, just like yours. He was athletic, on the football team, but he also had an artistic side. He liked to paint and sculpt. I fell in love, and three months later I was pregnant. At seventeen. With a sixteen year-old boyfriend.”

I nodded. The math had been easy to do, and I knew that my parents had been very young when they’d had me.

“I chose to have you, and both Grandma and Grandpa supported my decision. So did Jason, but his parents did not.” Mom smiled wistfully. “I don’t blame them. We were all barely getting by, and I’m sure they knew Jason’s future would completely change with a child to support before he was even out of high school.”

“But you both got married,” I said, wondering when the man she was fondly describing turned into someone who would just abandon his wife and child.

She nodded. “He defied his parents and we married, stupidly using our savings to pay the security deposit and first month’s rent on a studio apartment. We worked part time, still going to school. Even with help from both of our parents we couldn’t afford rent past that first month. Two months later we were evicted and each living back home with our parents. Reality came down on us hard. Jason had one more year of high school. We had a baby coming in another four months. We were in love, but sometimes love isn’t enough to build a partnership and a life on.”

I winced. “You regretted deciding to have me.”

“I absolutely did not.” Mom glared at me. “I always wanted you, but I did worry that I couldn’t provide a decent life for you. It was harder for Jason. Grandma and Grandpa were ready to help with childcare and housing and food, but Jason’s parents weren’t. They told him they wouldn’t give him another dime unless we got a divorce. He wondered if we should give you up for adoption. That wasn’t him being a bad person, it was him being a scared teenager. We were young, had no money. We were still in high school. I don’t blame him for leaving us.”

“I do,” I shot back. Why was a baby solely the mother’s responsibility? What gave the father the right to just walk away and abandon any accountability for a life he’d created?

She reached across the table to take my hand. “Stop letting the mistakes of a boy ruin your life, Abby. Stop expecting abandonment from every man you meet just because thirty years ago a teenager couldn’t cope with being a parent. That choice he made had nothing to do with you, and it has nothing to do with any of the grown-ass men you’re dating now.”

“But we struggled because he couldn’t take responsibility,” I argued. “I get that he was seventeen when I was born, but he’s had thirty years to at the very least send money to help raise and provide for me. Not blaming a teenager? Okay, I get that. But I am absolutely blaming an adult man for not trying to make things right when he had the money and the ability to do so.”

Mom smiled. “Honey, he was struggling just as much as we were. I don’t think there was any money to send either from him or his folks.”

“Which is why I only want to rely on myself,” I told her.

She nodded. “It’s good to be able to rely on yourself, but open your heart to what others are offering you in good faith. If Jordan wants to treat you to dinner, thank her. If Willa puts together a workout routine so you can be ready for a hike you’ve been wanting to take, thank you. And if a very handsome orc offers you his heart, at least examine your own in an honest way and consider saying ‘yes’.”

I eyed her suspiciously, wondering how she’d made the leap from random hockey player I was friendly with to romance.

Mom scrolled on her phone, then turned the screen toward me. There was a picture of Bwat and me at McHenry’s Friday night with a table full of food and champagne flutes in front of us. I was smiling and waving my hands animatedly as I spoke, my eyes focused somewhere off camera. Bwat was reaching across the table to scoop an obscene amount of blistered peppers onto my plate, his gaze fixed on my face.

His expression…. I’d never seen such love, such warmth even before from anyone aside from my mother. How had I missed this? How had I not realized how he’d felt? And how the heck had my mother gotten this picture?

“I don’t just follow your social media.” Mom grinned. “When a waitress hashtags the Tusks, I like to see those pictures as well.”

“That was Friday night. I’d had quite a bit to drink. We were celebrating.”

“I see that.” Mom put her phone away. “And I want you to promise me you’ll give this nice man a chance. Ninety days. Like a tomato. Give it ninety days and see what blooms.”

Did I confess to her that something was already blooming? No. Not until I was sure that little seedling wasn’t going to die before it ever got a chance to flower.

Taking slow, steady breaths, I tried to center myself. I’d come here to be with my mother and support her during this uncertain health scare, but instead I was the one who needed support. I was the one who felt as if my whole world had been turned on its head.

My phone pinged, and with a reflex born of years, I looked at the text.

Bwat: I read that men with glasses are believed to be more thoughtful and trustworthy and smart. And that many women find men with glasses attractive. Do you like them.

I laughed, all the revelations talk about my father sliding into the past. The little green sprout grew just a little more, and I began to have faith that maybe someday a tomato would form and ripen.