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“Mom?”
She was standing with her back to him, her hands in the sink, the water running, the dishes being washed with the speed of a woman who’d raised seven (okay, basically eight considering Rafe had practically lived there) kids in a house where there was a constant revolving door of friends coming and going.
No matter how tough things were, there was always food in the fridge and pantry, a batch of cookies in the jar.
“I don’t need help, honey,” she said.
“I know.” He leaned back against the counter next to her, hopping up and sitting on the granite he and Rafe had installed.
She slanted a look in his direction and he immediately hopped back down. Well trained he was. “You know doing the dishes clears my head.”
“Pretty much the only time you got the least bit of quiet.”
Her gaze drifted to his. “Because we’d all disappear as soon as the sponge came out?”
A grin. “Exactly.” She leaned toward him, eyes twinkling. “Spoiler alert, I didn’t mind.”
He laughed, picking up a towel as she dropped a pan on the drying mat, wiping it down, and stacking it next to him as she continued washing.
But he didn’t say anything further, just gave her the quiet as he sat on the counter, drying the pots and pans.
When she’d finished washing up, he put them away as she loaded the dishwasher.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
A pause. “I wanted to apologize.”
He closed the drawer under the sink. “For what?”
She shot him a look.
Right.
The stuff about his dad, and all the shit that had been swirling around his brain for days now.
“It’s fine, Mom.”
She snagged the towel from him. “It’s not,” she said softly, surprising him by hopping up on the counter and patting the spot next to her.
He joined her, her familiar scent—flowers, baked goods,Mom—surrounding him.
She glanced at him, stated baldly, “I meant what I said. I wish your dad hadn’t put those thoughts in your mind.”
His brows tugged together.
“I’msoglad you’re kind and thoughtful and care about the people in your life.”
Those were good things. Those were therightthings.
A shake of her head, as though she read his thoughts. “But I hate that we somehow made it so that your entire identity comes from taking care of others and not thinking about yourself, baby.” She sighed. “I mean, I don’t think that you’ve thought aboutyoufirst from the moment your dad died. No,” she added. “I think it might even go back as far as from when he got sick and wanted you to watch out for us all.”
“This wasn’t parentification, Mom,” he felt obligated to add. “You guys let me be a kid.”
“Did we?” she asked softly. “DidI?” Another shake of her head. “I’m not so sure.”
“I didn’t even know how to do laundry until I was nineteen and you got tired of me bringing my clothes back from school.”
