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I hesitate, inhaling a deep breath and pulling open the front door. “Come in.”
Two days ago, I called my father and invited them here. The conversation was brief. It didn’t feel right to discuss what’s unfolded over the past two months over the phone.
Our relationship may never be perfect, but Vivian and Ray Greene are still my family, and as much as I’m enjoying my life, I want them to have the opportunity to be a part of it. Slowly.
Both of them apprehensively shuffle into our house, leaving their shoes in the entryway.
Unlike my dad’s torn-up expression, my mother hasn’t changed since I last saw her at the Winter Ball. I didn’t exactly expect her to grow a second head or shed a new skin, but I thought something would be different.
My own life has changed so much.
Do I look different to her?
Her gaze trails down my Johanna Ortiz sweater dress, splotched with print and color. Then her eyes slide over to the living room. Our shelves, the mantel, and our kitchen are brimming with red crocus flowers and heart decorations that Matthew put up to celebrate our first Valentine’s Day yesterday.
“We’ve missed you.” My father pulls me into a warm hug, somewhat awkward and unsteady.
“Ray, Vivian, it’s nice to see you both.” Matthew shakes my father’s hand and takes both of their coats.
“This is a lovely home.” Dad spots the photo from our wedding day at the entryway. A small frown tugs at his lips. “Thank you for having us.”
“Our pleasure.” Matthew nods. “Would you like a tour?”
Dad pauses for a moment, looking over at my mother, who, uncharacteristically, has barely said a word. Then he turns back to Matthew. “I would love that.”
“Right this way.” My husband leads my father up the stairs and into our shared office space, which mimics a war room right now.
Both of our businesses are taking off, and we’ve been back and forth between here and The Griffin for weeks.
I’m left alone with my mother, who looks small without the lift of her Toteme booties and Moncler puffer. I spent all of yesterday’s therapy session rehearsing what I’d say to her, the different approaches I could take. But, looking at her now, I know I need to speak from the heart.
“I have tea,” I offer, and she takes a seat on the plush couch, crossing her ankles one over the other and lacing her fingers together. “Lemon verbena?”
“Thank you.” I fetch us two mugs, ushering them to the coffee table and joining her on the couch.“If I may start?” She rolls her finely lined bottom lip into her teeth. Her eyes nervously shoot from the floor up to mine. I nod, letting her continue. “Molly, I’m sorry.”
She’s never apologized for anything. Sure, this is the best-case scenario, the one I’ve waited an eternity for, but I’m stunned.Genuinely flabbergasted.
“Sorry?” I repeat, clarifying. I need to hear the words again.
Mom looks away. “Yes. I want to apologize for how I acted at the Winter Ball and…” She inhales, wincing. “And how I’ve acted toward you all of this time. Your entire life, I mean.”
My heart aches, and even though she apologized, I’m not satisfied yet.
Is she being genuine?
After discussing the situation with my therapist, I realized that my mother’s behavior may have been driven by her own fears and insecurities, causing her to overreact to situations she deemed dangerous or risky. Though it hasn’t quite helped me move past the scars her words have inflicted, it has helped me let go of some of the anger and resentment I had been holding on to for so long.
“Thank you.” I nervously trace the lines in my palm. “I’ve spent the past few months trying to understand your motivations, why you insisted I get married to Lance. Why you’d hurt the man I love. Why you’d hurt me. But guessing the reasoning behind your behavior was pointless.” My voice cracks, and instead of brushing away my tears or hiding the fact that I’m hurting, I let myself cry. “I just want to know one thing: why was I never good enough for you?”
She doesn’t look at me for a long while, and then her amber eyes brim with something that’s causing them to turn red.
Is she allergic to cats? Or, wait. Is she…crying?
Impossible.
“You’ve always been good enough for me, Molly. For me and for your father.”
“You never made that known.”
