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She gave Breen’s hand a light pat. “Have some cake now. You need some meat on those bones.”
“I need to tell you he’s happy. I need you to know he’s happy and with a good person who loves him. I need you to know a part of him will always miss you, but he’s making a good life.”
And all Breen saw in Annie Olsen’s eyes was sorrow.
“There’s no true happiness in sin, Breen, and I grieve for how he’ll suffer when judgment comes.” Tears glinted but didn’t fall. “I carried that boy in my womb and in my heart. I raised him to know God’sword and live by it. But he took the wrong path. I’ll pray hard tonight.”
“I’m sorry. I’m only upsetting you, and I should go.” She rose. “You were always kind to me, and I’ll never forget it. Marco has the brightest heart, the kindest spirit of anyone I know. I think that matters, so much, in this life and whatever comes after.”
She let herself out, and though it would be a long walk to her mother’s duplex, Breen thought it might settle her.
She’d hoped, and could admit now that hope had been foolish.
Marco had family, she reminded herself. He had her. He had Sally and Derrick, he had everyone in Talamh. And now he had Brian.
And every one of his true family loved and accepted him, not despite who he was but because of it.
She warned herself to remember that, because the same applied to herself.
She knew her mother was home. She’d looked. The globe might not show her Shana or Odran’s world, but it showed Jennifer at home in her polished town house, going about her Saturday routine.
The gym with her personal trainer first thing, followed by household shopping.
Every fourth Saturday was a salon day. Hair, nails, a facial. But that wasn’t today—something checked before she’d booked the hotels and made the appointments in New York.
Still too early in April to risk the outdoor plants and pots, but Jennifer would have opened the windows for at least an hour. She’d do whatever laundry she didn’t send out, deal with any bills or banking online.
Though she had a cleaning service, she’d go through the house, fluffing pillows, arranging the flowers she’d bought that morning, and so on.
Some would call it puttering, Breen supposed as she stood outside the duplex. But for Jennifer Wilcox, it was a mission. Hell, a religion every bit as inflexible as Annie Olsen’s.
Perfection in all things—except her only child, who’d fallen well below the mark.
Drinks later, maybe, with a friend or, more likely, working on anaccount. Her rise up to media director of a successful ad agency had involved plenty of work at home.
Perfection in all things.
She walked to the door, knocked. Then stepped back to stand on the walkway.
There’d be no offer of coffee and cake here. But under that polite, homey veneer, it was the same, wasn’t it? she realized.
I birthed you, I raised you, but I won’t accept who and what you are. Who and what you are will never be welcome here unless and until you reject it all and fall in line.
Become what I can accept, or I won’t even speak your name.
She’d kept the highlights and the chin-length swing, Breen noted when her mother opened the door. She’d dressed for Saturday, trim black pants, light blue sweater, ballet flats, careful and casual makeup. Gold studs, a thin gold chain with a row of small gold beads, a fancy tracker watch—that was new.
She noticed every detail, including the sharp surprise on her mother’s face.
“Breen. I didn’t know you were in Philadelphia.”
“Briefly. For Sally’s birthday.”
“I see. Well, come in.”
“No, I’m not welcome. What I am, who I am, isn’t welcome.”
“We’ll discuss it.”
