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The doorbell rings, slicing through the calm before the storm. Dean starts to rise from his chair, but I lay a hand on his arm. "I'll get it," I say
I walk to the door, each step echoing in the silence of the house. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what's to come.
"Well, here goes nothing," I whisper to myself as I reach for the doorknob.
When I open the door, there she is - mom. Standing on the doorstep looking exactly the way she always looks - perfect.
Her platinum blonde hair is styled into an immaculate bob, not a single strand out of place. Her thin frame is cloaked in a cashmere wrap coat, the color of winter skies. Spiky leather boots peek out from underneath the hem, adding a touch of edginess to her otherwise classic outfit.
Upon seeing me, her face lights up with a beaming smile. It's so bright, so genuine, that for a moment, I'm taken aback.
Mom isn't typically the hugging type, but before I can react, she pulls me into a hug. The scent of her perfume, a mix of vanilla and roses, fills my nostrils, familiar and comforting. I allow myself to be enveloped in her arms, sinking into the feeling.
It's been a long time since I've seen my mother. Despite our differences, despite the tension that always seems to simmer between us, she's still my mom. And as I stand there, wrapped in her arms, my heart pangs with sadness. There's a lump in my throat, a tightness in my chest. But I swallow it down, forcing a smile onto my face.
"Mom," I say, pulling back from the hug. "It's so good to see you." And despite everything, I mean it. Because no matter how much we argue, no matter how many times she drives me crazy, I love her. And I've missed her more than I care to admit.
"It's good to see you too, darling," she replies. I'm surprised again by the warmth in her eyes. It's a look I can't remember seeing often, if ever, growing up.
As she steps inside the foyer, she glances around, her eyes taking in the high ceilings, the grand staircase, and the tasteful decor. An impressed but confused look crosses her face.
"Lily, your home... it's beautiful," she says, her voice filled with genuine admiration. Then, her gaze settles on me again, curiosity sparking in her eyes. "Your sister mentioned you lived with a roommate. What does she do for a living?"
Before I can reply, a whirlwind of energy comes bounding around the corner. "He's a fireman!" Ava shouts, her eyes wide with excitement. She grins at Mom, clearly proud of the information she's just shared.
Behind her, Dean appears, an amused smile tugging at his lips.
"Ava," he scolds gently, "I thought we agreed you'd stay in the living room until Lily had a chance to introduce us."
Then, turning to my mom, he extends a hand. "Sorry about that, Mrs. Hopkins," he says, his tone warm and friendly. "I'm Dean."
Mom's eyes widen. She looks from Dean to me, then back again.
"Your sister didn't tell me you lived with a man," she says, her voice barely more than a whisper.
The surprise in her eyes is clear, but there's something else too - they sparkle with something I can't quite place. It's a look I've never seen before, a glint of something that makes me pause. Is it... amusement?
As I'm trying to decipher the sparkle in my mom's eyes, Ava blurts out, "Of course, she lives with us. Lily is my nanny!"
I can almost feel the temperature in the room drop a few degrees.
Instantly, I want to sink into the floor.
I should have known better than to think things were going to go according to plan when I live in a house with a five-year-old. For a moment, I freeze, bracing myself for my mother's harsh reaction. But to my shock, it doesn't come.
Instead, she bends down to Ava's level, her eyes softening.
"A nanny, huh?" she says, her voice surprisingly gentle. "Well, that's a very important job. Did Lily ever tell you that she had a nanny growing up too?"
Ava shakes her head, her eyes wide with curiosity. "No, she didn't! What was she like?"
Before I can answer, Dean cuts in.
"Why don't we move this conversation into the living room?" he suggests, looking at me with a small, reassuring smile. "And let me take your bags, Mrs. Hopkins."
I nod in agreement, leading my mother into the living room while Dean shoos Ava upstairs with a promise of a bedtime story. As we settle into the plush couches, my eyes linger on Dean's retreating figure. His strength and calmness provide a soothing balm to my frazzled nerves.
I turn back to my mother, and to my surprise, I find myself laughing. The tension gradually eases from my shoulders. "Who are you, and what have you done with my mother?" I ask playfully, a hint of humor in my voice.
