Page 5 of Gone Away Home

If only that made them go away.

A picture of Mom and me flashes on the screen, and I force a smile on my face to prevent her from asking if anything is wrong as I answer cheerfully, “Hi, Mom. What’s up?”

There’s a cheeky quality to her voice, “What do you mean ‘what’s up’? Can’t I just call my favorite daughter?”

I roll my eyes and huff out a small laugh with her antics. This. This is why I have to figure out a way to let go of my feelings for Dustin. Mom is happy. She’s blissful even. It’s all because of Thad.

I remember the shell of a person Mom was before Thad came into her life. When I was able to get past the shock of finding out they were together and getting married, I was able to look back on the six months of they had been dating and realized I should have known something was up.

But no. Instead, I was focused on myself and my first year of high school. Sure, navigating such a big change and trying to find my place, when I felt like I didn’t belong a lot of the time, wasn’t easy, but Mom was my person. She always had my back and was the only parent I had in my life.

My dad, the biological one, left the moment he found out Mom was pregnant with me. I’ve never heard a peep from him and I’m certainly not holding my breath for it to ever change.When I was younger, sure, I had a sliver of hope. Now, at 31, I’m no longer under those delusions.

It’s his loss. At least, that’s what Mom always told me when I was in my feelings about how easy it was for him to walk away from me and never look back.

Thad has been the only father I’ve ever known and he’s a damn good one. Mom and Thad are my biggest cheerleaders. Still, I’ve never been able to refer to Thad as my dad. It’s like the word won’t form on my lips. I’m pretty sure it hurts him, but he’s never pushed, and he’s never made me feel bad about it.

He’s a good man and he’s built a life with Mom. Part of me is jealous of them. I’m not sure I’ll ever find what they have. Not now.

You could if you didn’t care about what other people think.

I swallow hard with the thought because it’s dangerous. Not only could it destroy people I love, but it would also require Dustin to come home.

It hasn’t happened in 14 years; I don’t think it’s going to happen now.

“I’m your only daughter,” I tease my mom.

Her laughter is a reminder of why my shriveled up little heart isn’t important, at least not right now. “Still my favorite,” she chirps.

“Yeah, yeah,” I murmur. “So, really, what’s up?”

“Fine,” she holds the word out, amusement in her voice. She can’t get one over on me, she called me for a reason. “I was calling to make sure you’ll be here for Thanksgiving?”

I barely contain the sigh that wants to escape. Where the hell else would I be? She’s my only family and I’m not in a relationship. Nope, the last one I tried was years ago and it crashed and burned in glorious Hindenburg fashion.

It’s not worth trying at this point.

“Of course,” I force myself to keep my voice level and neutral. “You know I can’t miss your sweet potato casserole. I wait all year for it, and you only make it for Thanksgiving.”

“It wouldn’t be as special if I made it all the time,” she insists.

I chuckle; it’s the same argument she’s made for years. And she sticks to her guns by never making it any other day of the year. Not even Christmas when I’ve begged for it.

Could I make it on my own? I wish. I’ve tried over the years and there is something, a special ingredient that she’s holding close to her vest, that I’m missing. Every time I’ve tried on my own, it’s not the same and pales in comparison.

Hopefully, one day she’ll let me in on the secret, but it probably won’t be this year.

The woman makes sure to prep it the day before Thanksgiving because I try and pop over when she’s cooking it and see what the fuss is about for myself. She got wise to my attempt to crack the code a long time ago.

“I’m pretty sure it would be just as special on a random Tuesday, but I know you won’t give in, Mom,” I tease her.

“Nope,” she pops the p, the laughter clear in her voice. When she turns serious suddenly, I almost get whiplash, “Are you sure you won’t bring someone special this year for dinner?”

I try not to bristle at her question, but it’s not easy to hold myself in check. “That would require someone special in my life first,” I bite out the words and then immediately regret them. “I’m fine, Mom,” I try again, softer this time. “I’m happy.”

The words taste like a lie on my tongue, but they’re out there now. Just floating. With all their bullshit.

We both know it, but, thankfully, Mom doesn’t call me out. Instead, she changes the subject, and we chat for a few minutes until I’m able to get off the phone just as my stomach growls. Again.

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