Page 77 of Merry Little Midlife Matchmaker

“It’s what drew you to Lizzie. She’s warm and nurturing, all the things you wish you could give your son.”

I frowned at her. “Well, yes. But she’s a lot more than that. She’s not… She’s talented and funny and bright. She’s really clever, and she can keep track of a million things at once. Margaret, everyone thinks she’s just good at being a mom. They don’tseeher.”

“But you do.”

We stared at each other. My heart thumped uncomfortably, and I didn’t know why. I couldn’t understand what my aunt was getting at, or why she was asking me all these questions.

Margaret’s face softened, and she reached across the table to lay her hand over mine. It was warm and soft and small, birdlike bones barely covering the back of my palm. But the touch sent warmth spiraling up my arm and made me want to cry.

“Sean, darling,” Margaret said quietly, “it wasn’t your fault your father drank. It wasn’t your fault he left. It wasn’t your fault your mother got sick and passed when you were too young to truly come to grips with it. And the fault for your wife’s infidelity lies at her feet, not yours.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I should have been a better husband.”

“Yes. And she should have been a better wife.”

Her simple words cracked something inside me. I stared at her age-spotted hand atop mine and felt the ground shift like quicksand beneath me. “He used to get mad when I madenoise on Christmas morning and woke him up,” I said, thinking about my father. About his red-faced rage when he opened his bedroom door, the scent of old booze reeking from every pore. The way he thundered down the stairs when I stood peeking at presents under the tree.

Margaret’s fingers curled around mine as her thumb swept over my knuckles. “You were a child, and you deserved better.”

A tear escaped my eyes, and I brushed it away. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, Margaret.”

She squeezed my palm. “You own the things you did wrong, Sean. And you let go of the things that weren’t your fault.”

I lifted my gaze to hers, and the quicksand under my feet settled. “Yeah,” I said. “Okay.”

“Sean, darling?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you deserve to be unhappy and alone?”

My throat constricted as I tried to gulp down the ball of emotion clogging it. “I?—”

She squeezed my palm hard. “No,” she told me firmly. “No, you don’t.”

It took me long, long moments to eke out the words and repeat, “No, I don’t.”

THIRTY-FIVE

LIZZIE

The dayafter the most disastrous Christmas of my life, I spoke to the kids in the morning, then stood in my quiet, creaky house while I wondered what I was supposed to do with myself. Staring out the patio doors to the graying wood of the deck and the bare trees and bushes lining the backyard, I tried to remember what I did the other years that the kids had spent the holidays with Isaac.

Laundry, probably. Or I’d go over to my brother’s house and babysit his kids while he and Emily had time to themselves. Or I went to help my parents clean up.

Gritting my teeth, I squared my shoulders.

Not today.

I wouldn’t spend one single minute serving other people. Not when my brother had looked at me with such bare disgust on his face. Not when I’d been run out of my parents’ house for daring to chase one bit of pleasure for myself.

My phone was plugged in to a charger on the edge of the kitchen counter. I marched over to it and turned it off. Inhaling deeply, I stared at the dark screen and felt a weight lift off my shoulders. I hadn’t turned that device off for years. I’d alwaysbeen ready for a call, for an interruption. Always been ready to be needed.

Well, today,Ineeded me. I marched upstairs and got dressed in warm clothes, then packed my camera up and made sure both batteries were charged. I found an extra, blank SD card in the front pocket of the camera case, so I popped it into the appropriate slot and slung the camera strap over a shoulder. Then I grabbed my wallet and keys, and I left.

I drove to the coast and parked at a trailhead in a local nature reserve. Inhaling the fresh, cold scent of winter, I glanced up at the overcast sky and wondered how long I’d have before it would begin to drizzle. Didn’t matter. I was here, and that was enough.

Setting off down the path, I took photos of trees and moss and dead branches. I took pictures of the gray sky through scraggly trees. I fumbled with my camera settings and struggled to remember everything that had been instinctive all those years ago. I made it to the cliffs and shuffled my way to the edge, then took photos of sea birds crying out at the crashing waves below.

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