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“I don’t know, Mom. Eating out is expensive.”

She purses her lips. “I wasn’t asking you to pay. I have plenty of money.”

You do?

“Your father had life insurance,” she says.

I want to ask why I never knew that, never saw any of that money. I think I know the answer, though. I don’t think she’s really touched that money at all. It would require effort to take out the funds and use them to pay people to fix up the house. I can be frustrated about that. What I can’t be is mad. She never offered to improve my life, and she never tried to improve her own, either. We both suffered.

“We can go to the diner,” Mom says. “You won’t have to cook.”

“It’s not the healthiest option though, is it?”

She puts her hands on her hips. It’s a brief gesture, though surprises me all the same. “Eating at a restaurant once in a while won’t hurt. Unless you really feel like standing in front of a hot stove tonight.”

I really don’t feel like doing that. Actually, I feel like celebrating. I’ve taken one more step toward freedom and there has been a tiny weight lifted from my shoulders.

“Okay, I guess it won’t hurt,” I agree, and Mom gives me a small smile that’s almost, almost like how I remember her smiles to be. “When do you want to go?”

“How about now? I’ll just need to get my shoes. And find my purse.”

“Your purse is on the lamp table by your chair,” I tell her. “Artie needs to change clothes before we can go, too.”

Artie has the guest room to himself. I brought down some old toys from the attic for him to play with. He spends a lot of time in there, when he’s not stuck to my side, that is. It fills me with pride and melancholy to know he’s developing into his own person who doesn’t always need me every second of the day.

“Oh, I already helped him to change,” Mom says. “He’s ready.”

I blink. “Really? You got him ready before you asked me? What would you have done if I said no?”

“I knew you would agree.” With that somewhat enigmatic comment, Mom leaves. She calls out to Artie, telling him to find his shoes. I’m left standing there wondering about the change in my mom. It’s only small things, but the fact she decided to do this is a step in the right direction. Maybe having Artie around is helping her?

Though thinking of Artie, there’s a flash of guilt. It was always me and my son against the world. I’d never once considered that his father would come back into our lives. But now I’m back in town, things are only going to get more complicated. I know I should say something to Wolf—he deserves to know he’s a father—but how can I do it while the divorce is still pending? I don’t want to do anything that might jeopardize that, because I know what Malcolm is like. He thinks I left because of his behavior. If he even had the slightest suspicion I might have left because of another man, then things could get unpleasant. I don’t want to be on the receiving end of his anger again, so maybe it’s better that I don’t say anything yet.

I get ready and go out to meet them. Artie’s in clean clothes, his shoes already on his feet and tied. While he’s not one of those children who hates getting ready, he’s also not the type to hurry. I can’t help being a little impressed with how Mom has handled him so far.

“Can I have a hamburger?” Artie takes my hand while we step out into the humid warmth.

“We’ll see.”

I drive us to the Helena Diner. It’s identical to every other small-town diner, with checkered flooring, stools at the counter, and cracked red leather booth seating. There are several bikers at the counter, but also a lot of regular folks. The air is full of chatter and laughter and the sound of clattering silverware. The scents of coffee and grease make my stomach growl, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since breakfast.

We’re seated in a booth along the front wall, next to a window that looks out onto the parking lot. Our waitress, a high schooler by the looks of her, hands us a couple sticky menus and takes our drink orders before hurrying away with the nervous energy of a new worker. Artie sits on the opposite side from me, next to his grandmother.

She points out the different options on the kid’s menu, and he predictably decides on a hamburger.

“Okay, but you have to get some fruit on the side,” Mom tells him. “Not fries.”

Artie pouts. “I don’t want fruit.”

“Your mom wants you to eat something healthy, honey.”

I tap my own menu on the table, then make a spontaneous decision. “He can have fries if he wants them,” I say. “It’s only once in a while, so it won’t hurt.”

Mom recognizes her own words from before and gives me another of those small smiles.

Our drinks arrive, water for me, tea for Mom, and milk for Artie. I study the menu, looking at the salads before reminding myself that this is a rare treat and I deserve something more exciting for once.

“Woof!” Artie suddenly exclaims.