Page 43 of Unbroken

“I planned on making veggie lasagna,” she said, stepping up to the counter and straightening the thick wood cutting board. “I’m guessing you’re still vegetarian?”

“You guessed right,” I confirmed. “What can I help with?”

She popped a mushroom in her mouth and shook her head. “Absolutely nothing…yet. I may have you assemble, but until then, take a seat. There’s a barstool right there. Do you want anything to drink?”

I found the stool behind me and scooted it closer to the counter. “No, thanks.”

“So, I want to hear about everything,” she said, and I stiffened. If Shelly wanted to know everything that happened, I would tell her, but rehashing those memories and that trauma would undoubtedly sour my mood for the rest of the day.

Amanda had also mentioned that Devon hadn’t told his mom about the part she unknowingly played. I respected his decision and didn’t want to step on his toes. I also really didn’t want to witness her reaction.

“Everything since you returned to Texas, honey. Devon filled me in on the rest,” she quickly clarified.

I nodded and relaxed a little.

“Where are you living now?” she asked.

“About fifteen minutes from here. I rented a little duplextownhome. It’s nothing special, but it’s starting to feel like home. I rescued a dog. His name is Tato.”

She chopped the rest of the zucchini and dumped it in a bowl sitting in front of her. “That’s good. And you’re working?”

I told her about my small yet growing web and graphic design business and about going to therapy twice a week. She eagerly asked question after question, and we covered all the topics I expected.

Then she hit me with, “Have you spoken to your parents since you left?” She gave me a side-long glance as I tried and miserably failed not to tense on the barstool. “I’m going to take that as a no?”

Shelly knew my relationship with my parents. After not going back to see them for several holidays and instead bouncing between my friends’ houses, she got the idea. She always welcomed me into their home, but not first without an explanation.

“No,” I finally said, spinning back and forth on the barstool. “They haven’t reached out, and neither have I.”

Shelly gave me that look only a mother could give. The one that said they were concerned with your decisions or your actions, but they weren’t going to outright voice it.

And the pressure of the look worked as it was supposed to. I offered up more information than I planned to. “They weren’t exactly happy with my decision to move back, so I didn’t expect them to check in.”

“Why weren’t they happy with it?”

She set the zucchini aside and got to work peeling and chopping the onion.

“In my mother’s words, it’s because ‘if you have another breakdown, we won’t be close enough to make sure it stays under the radar.’” I pitched my voice and did my best impression of my high-strung, conceited, and self-centered mother.

I choked down an unamused huff along with the hurt that undoubtedly creeped to the surface when I talked about them.To say my relationship with my parents was strained would be putting it lightly. A more apt description would be hostile and uncaring.

Shelly shook her head, and I could see all the words she was barely holding back written on her face. But I didn’t want to talk about my parents. They spoiled everything, and I wasn’t going to let even the thought of them spoil this.

“How long have you lived here, in this house?” I asked before Shelly could decide to ask any follow-up questions.

“Well,” she said, spinning to retrieve a handful of fresh herbs from the fridge. “Devon bought this place when I was still in Houston. He moved me out of my old house and into here. Then, when I was done with treatment, I moved in.”

“Wait, Devon bought you a house?”

She laughed and rinsed the herbs under the sink faucet. “Oh, no. Devon lives here, too. Technically, it’s his house.”

Two years ago, Devon had said something about the possibility of selling their childhood home, which was far too big and in need of too many improvements to be feasible any longer. It was a good idea for him, his mom, and his sister, but I still couldn’t believe he’d gone through with it.

“When I moved in, we argued so much about it,” Shelly added. Waving the knife at me, she continued. “That’s something the two of you have in common: you’re more stubborn than a damn bull.”

I tilted my head and shrugged. She wasn’t wrong.

“I didn’t want to move in. I thought getting a small place for myself was a better option. He’s in his thirties now, and he doesn’t need his mama hanging around. But he wouldn’t hear it. He gave me the main bedroom and everything.”

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