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“Lord, yes.” Cynthia sipped her drink thoughtfully, set it back down. “Every single person in town knew her and loved her. She was a successful career woman, involved in every cause known to mankind, and Super Mom as well. And I was scared that if I didn’t measure up, your dad wouldn’t be happy.”
“Oh,” I said, sitting back in my chair as I let that sink in.
“I’m pretty secure in my career,” she continued. “I’ve been with Dr. Julian since my early twenties. I run that office for the dear man. I’ve tried to stay involved in town events, causes, fundraisers, all those things over the years. But motherhood…” She expelled a breath that sent her long, auburn-brown bangs flying away from her face. “Some people have a knack. A strong maternal instinct. Like Reba. She had it in spades. You do too, Quincy. Me?” She scoffed and shook her head. “I don’t have that instinct. A squirming newborn can still send me right over the edge. I have to talk myself down, remember I’ve had three babies. But it doesn’t come naturally. No surprise to you, I know.”
“Kind of like waiting tables, or really, walking in general doesn’t come naturally to me.” I grinned self-consciously.
Her sympathetic expression said she couldn’t debate that.
“Hannah, Brayden, and Molly know you love them,” I went on. “That’s most important.”
“After Hannah was born, I suffered from postpartum depression for months. I was so afraid I was a disappointment to your dad.”
It was my turn to frown. My dad was one of the most devoted people I knew. “He loves you, Cynthia. I’ve never doubted that.”
“I know that. God bless the man.” Her face slipped into a deep frown, and I thought I saw her lower lip quiver. “It’s my own insecurity. I know that too. I let Reba get in my head from the grave. Trying to measure up.” She let out a self-effacing laugh. “No one can measure up to Reba, and I say that with full respect. I don’t care what year it is or how far we’ve come; there’s still a lot of pressure on us women to be good at everything, isn’t there? To have the successful career and make a living. To run the household and keep a beautiful, clean house. And to be Super Mom.”
It was the first time she’d ever spoken to me as an equal, woman to woman, as if we were in the same boat. And we were.
We absolutely were, I realized.
Her words dug down deep and rustled something awake in me.
“I need to knock that right off,” Cynthia said. “All of us women do. As long as we let ourselves feel inadequate for not being as amazing as Reba, God rest her soul, we’ll all be going in circles trying to find some unattainable happiness.”
“Yes.” I nodded, my thoughts suddenly spinning out of control.
“I’ve not set a good example for you, Quincy. It’s never been my intent to replace your mom, but I should’ve been a better role model. A better stepmother. I’m sorry.”
“Isn’t that falling into the same trap?” I asked. “Saying you weren’t good enough, when you were doing the best you could?”
She looked pensive for a few seconds, then met my gaze. Slowly her mouth curved into a slight grin. “You might be right,” she said sheepishly. Her grin faded. “I’m glad you initiated this conversation. It’s long overdue.”
I breathed out and nodded. I was glad too.
“I hope we can find a way to start fresh. Not really start over, because we’re different than we were back then.”
“Older and supposedly wiser,” I said.
“Supposedly.”
We both laughed quietly.
“I’d like it if we could get along better. Treat each other better,” I said.
“Yes.” Cynthia reached across the table and put her hand on mine, squeezed it. “Yes, let’s.”
I wasn’t naive enough to think we’d be best friends or even close. That would take time. But today we’d connected on a level other than insecure stepmom and difficult stepdaughter. We’d connected as two women trying to do their best. Failing sometimes but trying.
She raised her mimosa glass, nearly empty, and said, “To being happy with ourselves and better to each other.”
“Cheers.” I clinked my glass to hers, sipped the rest of it down, and dug into my quiche again.
Silence settled in around us as we caught up on the eating we’d half neglected while we talked. My thoughts rained down on me, only slightly clearer than five minutes ago.
I’d realized I felt that pressure Cynthia described. The driving belief I should try to live up to my mom. How did that even make sense?
She’d been an amazing person. She’d loved what she did—the job and the involvement and the family, everything—and had been good at all of them. That was Reba Yates, but it didn’t have to be Cynthia, and it didn’t have to be me.
