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“Honey?”
“Just me, Mom.”
“Come into the kitchen and get something to eat.”
“I’m not hungry,” she said as she strode into the room, “but thank you. I made our appointment at the new place you wanted to try this week. We should head out soon so we’re not late.”
Her mom was stirring something on the stove, but she turned her face up and Teresa pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Tell me everything, baby.”
“How long is that going to take to finish up?” she asked. “We have our appointment.”
“Your father needs dinner before we go.”
Okay, this was the stuff she knew she hadn’t missed or misinterpreted. This was the stuff that drove her crazy. Her mom had been ill, had been nearly dead, but she lived…and she’d stepped right back into the cage, willingly.
Her father could cook one damned meal, or hell, he could get takeout the one night a week her mother, his wife went out for a fucking hour.
“You don’t need to look like that,” her mom said, stirring the meat, “it’ll only take a few minutes.”
“I know.”
But fuck if it wasn’t annoying anyway.
“Why do you do it?” she whispered. “Why do you wait on him? He never washes a dish, never folds a load of laundry. I don’t think he’s ever cooked for you, not even when you were sick and—”
The spoon clinked along the edge of the pot. “Don’t,” her mother murmured. “Just…don’t do this today.”
“Why not?” Teresa snapped. “God, if not today, then when? You never change.Noneof you do.”
Which wasn’t a fair assessment, not at all. Not after what Gabe had shown her the night before, not after Anton’s support.
Her brothers might be shifting perspective.
But her parents weren’t. Her mother wasn’t.
Case in point, her pulling the pot off the stove, plating up food for her father. Then she turned to Teresa. “I’m happy in my life.”
“Happy in this house? Cooking all the time? Never going out? Never living a life that’s not taking care of someone?” Her mother put her pot in the sink but didn’t look at Teresa, just moved to the fridge, grabbed a beer.
Teresa stepped in front of her. “Don’t you wantmore?”she asked.“Don’t you want something for yourself?”
Her mother sidestepped her, put the beer on the table.
“Mom.”
She turned, headed for the silverware drawer.
“Mom.”
Opened it, pulled out a fork and knife.
“Mom!”
“What, Teresa?” she snapped, and it was a tone she’d never heard from her mother before. Warm and soft, not sharp and cutting. “What the heck do you want me to say? I love you and my family. I love my life.”
“It’s like you’re brainwashed.” She tossed up her hands. “You don’tdoanything. You don’t go anywhere or see anyone or, hell, Mom. I swear to God, you spend more time ironing Dad’s underwear than doing something for yourself.”
Her mom went still.
