Page 37 of A Baby For Her Billionaire BFF

I’m hit by the familiar scent of pine and something else — stale time, maybe. The memories crowd in, unbidden: the sharp words of local kids calling me “professor” in tones dripping with derision, my own parents echoing their disbelief at the dreams I harbored. How could their son, the one they raised in this forgotten corner of Pennsylvania, ever make something of himself?

“Oliver?” Nora’s voice, laced with concern, pulls me back.

“Sorry, just… a lot of memories,” I manage, forcing a smile.

“Good ones, I hope,” my mother chimes in, but the question is rhetorical.

She’s always been good at rewriting history, turning a blind eye to the bad parts.

“Of course, Mom,” I lie smoothly.

We step further inside, and there’s my dad, rising from his armchair with more effort than I remember. His hair has surrendered to gray, and his once broad shoulders seem fragile.

“Son.” His voice is gravelly, a testament to years spent working in the dusty environment of the lumber mill before it closed down.

“Hey, Dad.” The word feels foreign on my tongue, like speaking a language I’ve almost forgotten.

He nods stiffly, and the silence stretches taut between us. There’s too much history in the air, too many arguments about practicality versus ambition that turned dinners into battlegrounds. But he’s moving around well enough, puttering about the room, picking up discarded newspapers, straightening cushions — a silent battle against the chaos of his own body’s decline.

“House looks good,” I say because the quiet is too loud, and I need to fill it with something, anything.

“Keeps me busy.” His gaze lands on Nora, and for a split second, I catch the glint of curiosity, perhaps even respect. Maybe it’s her poised demeanor or the fact that she stands here in this run-down cabin without a hint of discomfort.

“Dad, this is Nora,” I introduce them, and she extends a hand.

“Mr. Wolfe, it’s a pleasure.”

“John’s fine,” he grunts, shaking her hand.

“Thank you for having me,” Nora continues, undeterred by the rough edges of my father’s manners.

“Of course,” he says, and there’s a flicker of warmth there. Maybe it’s the presence of an outsider, or perhaps it’s the realization that this woman standing in his living room represents a part of the success he never thought possible for his son.

“Let’s sit down,” Mom suggests, motioning towards the threadbare couch. “I’ve made some iced tea.”

As we settle onto the cushions, the tension hovers like a third guest in the room. There’s so much I want to say, so much that needs to be aired out, but the words stick in my throat. For now, we’re just a family, awkwardly navigating the familiar dance of conversation, each step measured, each turn calculated not to tread on old landmines.

“How are you feeling?” I settle with asking my father.

“Good.” He nods. “I’m starting chemo next week. I’m gonna beat this thing.”

Mom sips her tea. “He read that cancer patients who believe they’ll get better have a higher chance of doing exactly that.”

“That’s wonderful,” Nora says.

I nod, at a loss for what to say. Another awkward silence stretches on until Nora finally breaks it.

“Did you both grow up in the area?” she asks my parents.

Mom chuckles, and her eyes twinkle with a hint of youth. “Oh, honey, we’re real mountain folk. We’ve been here longer than the trees.”

Dad grunts, but his lips twitch upwards in that half-smile I recognize from early childhood. “Your mother has a flair for dramatics.” He catches her eye and winks.

I stare at them, surprised. Somehow, their interaction feels… lighter. They seem more like the couple from the faded photographs displayed on the mantel than the ones who used to argue about the absurdity of my dreams.

“Yeah,” Mom continues, ignoring Dad’s comment. “We were high school sweethearts. I guess you could say this town is our beginning, middle, and end.”

She says it so matter-of-factly, as if being born, living, and dying in the same place is perfectly ordinary. To me, it sounds unimaginably monotonous, but Nora doesn’t flinch or laugh.

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