Page 96 of The Charm of You

There’s no more room under this metaphorical rug for any more sweeping.

My heart feels like it’s full of lead when I step onto the porch. The light above the door is still on, and through the windows, I catch glimpses of Mama in the kitchen.

Relief eases my tense muscles. We need to talk, and it looks like I’ll get my chance.

Before I step inside, I promise myself that I won’t give up so easily, not like I did this morning and every other time over the last ten years. I won’t back down just because it might be too difficult to talk about Daddy with her.

With a deep, empowering breath, I push the door open and follow the mouthwatering smell of herbs toward the kitchen.

As I approach, my steps heavy and hesitant, she lifts her head. “Since you said you’d be late tonight, I already ate, but there is leftover chicken. I’m happy to heat it up for you. It’s got that honey glaze you like.”

“Can we talk first, please?” I ask, my words rushed.

If I don’t jump right into it, I might burst. I am due, considering I’ve been holding all this in for years. Coupled with the new guilt coursing through me after my conversation with Austin, I’m surprised I’m not in pieces scattered across the floor right now.

“Sure, sweetheart. Want some tea? I can put on a kettle.”

“I’m fine. I just… I need to get something out. It’s long overdue.” I toss my jacket onto the back of the couch, sweat trickling down my back from all my nerves.

Her mischievous smile throws me off. “It’s about Austin, isn’t it? Suzanne and I knew you two would hit it off, and I’m so glad you did. We didn’t want to meddle, but it’s time I confess. When we all had dinner the other night, it was a bit of a ploy.” She waves her hands. “Well, ploy is such a dirty word. It was merely a thoughtful plan to get you two talking, and we hoped for the best.”

“Um, okay,” I say, unsure of what to do with this information. It’s not exactly shocking news, but it catches me off guard since it’s a completely different direction from the one I thought we’d be heading in right now.

She claps. “I’m so glad you’re not mad. Now, tell me everything. Spill the tea, as they say.”

I meet her in the kitchen, my head in a daze. For a moment, I’m torn at a proverbial fork in the road, one path leading me to sit and gush over pleasant things, while the other urges me to deal with the ugly baggage that’s haunted us for too long.

I squeeze her hands. “That’s not what I want to talk about.”

“Oh?” Her innocent, loving eyes sparkle under the kitchen lights.

“I want you to know that I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t stay back when Daddy died. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to be here for you. I should’ve stayed so we could be here for each other.” My voice catches on a ball of emotion in my throat as tears sting the backs of my eyes.

“What has gotten into you, Caroline? This is all ancient history, and there’s no reason to let it taint a perfectly beautiful visit.”

I scoff. “That right there is our entire problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“You never want to talk about Daddy. You act like it’s wrong. Like it’s some taboo, ugly subject, but he was my father. He was important, and he still is. Why do you insist on burying his memory right alongside him?” I throw my hands up. “You always pretend like everything’s perfect, but it’s not.”

Her bottom lip quivers, and my heart further cracks.

“I was fired last week,” I whisper. “I was fired from my big, successful job everyone keeps going on about, and I didn’t have the courage to tell you because I haven’t felt like I could. There’s no room for imperfection around here.”

Her eyes brim with tears. I’ve never seen her this close to crying, and my stomach churns.

I’ve pushed her too hard, haven’t I? I came in here ready to apologize for not being here for her all those years ago, and now, I’m just scolding her.

This is not what I wanted.

I’ve always been someone to hash things out head-on with everyone but my mother. When it comes to her, I don’t know how to do that. I never learned.

I inch toward her with a comforting hand outstretched, but she steps back, shaking her head. “You’re right.” She swallows. “I don’t like talking about your father with you, but it’s not what you think.”

I shrink back and freeze, afraid to move or even breathe, as if any tiny change might make her cut this conversation short. I can’t let her do that, not when we’re on the cusp of a breakthrough.

She clings to my hand and leads us to the couch, like we should be sitting down for this, and she’s not wrong. My damn knees are shaking.

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