Page 42 of New Hope, Old Grudges

She must’ve been worried sick.

I hoped Brody at least had the good sense to call her last night to tell her I was alive.

“Will,” she answered, sounding cheerful and calm.

Brody must’ve called her.

“Mom.” I cringed at how sheepish I sounded. “I, um…” I tried to think of what to say. I owed her about a thousand apologies, but none of them were going to be right over the phone. “Can you come and get me?” I asked instead.

“Of course! My stars,” she agreed without hesitation. “I’ll be there in ten. I love you.”

No matter how long the conversation was, no matter how recently we’d seen each other, my mother always ended phone calls with, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” I replied without wavering like I had in the past.

The storm had made plenty of things clear for me, namely being that I had been a bitch to my mother for long enough.

It was time to grow up.

* * *

My mother was at Brody’s within the promised ten minutes.

She’d been out of the car before I could close the front door to Brody’s house, slinging her arms around me the best she could while I swam in Brody’s bulky jacket.

“I’m so glad you’re okay.” She kissed my cheek.

I let her, thinking of how I’d ruined Thanksgiving.

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

She waved me off, kissing me full on the lips before letting me go and peering behind me. “Brody’s place is lovely. I’ve never been inside. Should we go snoop through his underwear drawer?”

My mother was serious. Of course, she was. “Mom, I just want to go home if that’s okay?”

All mischief left her eyes. They turned so tender and soft, I almost broke down then and there.

“Of course, it’s okay,” she murmured. “You can always come home.”

Then luckily, before I could cry, she bundled me into the truck—my father’s truck—and we were off down the driveway.

I didn’t speak for a while because I was getting my bearings. The truck still smelled of him. The leather on the seats was still worn, the console as clean as ever. The radio still blared with a little bit of static.

My father still existed in this truck, yet his absence was almost unbearable. I stared out the window at the snowcapped trees passing us by.

“Why didn’t you get another dog?” I blurted, looking from the window to my mother’s profile. “He was talking about it right b-before…” I drew in a heavy breath. “Right before. Obviously, I know why you didn’t straightaway, but I figured you would’ve by now. Why haven’t you?”

My mother glanced from the road to me, her gaze as soft as it always was. But there was sorrow there too. Bone-deep sorrow that she’d either been hiding or I’d been ignoring. “I wanted to,” she said. “But I haven’t had the heart to just yet.”

My mother not having the heart... an impossible concept.

I reached out without thinking, my hand finding her thigh and gripping it.

My mother looked momentarily shocked, then without hesitation, one of her hands left the steering wheel to lay on top of mine and squeeze.

My mother never withheld affection from me. Not when I needed it and not when I didn’t deserve it.

“You hate me,” I said to my mother, my throat suddenly dry. “You should hate me. For being gone for so long. For not coming back.”

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