Page 61 of Brazen Being It

“People deserve second chances,” he said the night we signed the paperwork. “Your mom included.”

Sometimes I wonder what he sees in me, still. But then he’ll kiss my temple or bring home a milkshake after my shift and I stop asking why.

I just love him. The kind of love that feels like solid ground.

It’s a five-hour drive to the facility in Tennessee. Close enough I can do it in a day, even though it is exhausting. Far enough it gives me time to think.

The trees are changing now, leaves curling at the edges into crimson and amber. It’s beautiful in that slow, dying way. Autumn always makes me feel reflective. Like everything is coming undone just to come back stronger later.

Mom’s rehab center looks like a fancy summer camp. Clean. Crisp. Surrounded by trees. The kind of place where you can believe healing might actually be possible.

She’s waiting for me on the porch when I pull up, wearing a soft sweater and a smile that almost reaches her eyes.

“Hey, baby,” she says, her voice raspier than I remember, but clear. Lucid.

“Hey, Momma.”

We hug awkwardly. We’re still relearning each other.

She smells like peppermint and soap. Not vodka. Not cigarettes. Not sweat and regret. Just peppermint and soap.

“You look good,” I tell her, and I mean it. Her cheeks are fuller. Her eyes brighter. Still tired, but alive.

“So do you,” she says, eyeing my outfit. “You got a job?”

“Waiting tables. Started GED classes, too.”

“Smart girl,” she says, and I blink back sudden tears. That’s the kind of thing she used to say when I was little, before the bottle got between us.

We sit on a bench by the garden, the late autumn sun warming our faces.

“I’m proud of you,” I say.

She flinches, but smiles. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not saying it for you,” I reply. “I’m saying it for me. Because I’ve waited a long time to be able to say it and mean it.”

Her eyes fill, but she doesn’t cry. Not this time.

“I want to come home,” she says quietly.

“We’re working on it. Drew’s looking into housing. Sober living homes aren’t everywhere and have beds open. We are thinking maybe something near us. In North Carolina.”

“You sure he’s okay with that?”

“He’s the one who brought it up.”

She looks away, squinting into the sun. “I don’t deserve this.”

“No,” I say, gently. “But you’re trying. That counts for something.”

All I can think leaving her is I don’t deserve him. The goodness he brings to my life. The way he’s given me family instantly along with embracing what little family I have with my mom. I’ll never take him for granted.

Later, as I crawl into bed beside Little Foot and curl into his side, I think on the days. He’s already half-asleep, but when I press a kiss to his shoulder, he stirs just enough to wrap his arm around me.

“How’s your mom?” he mumbles.

“She’s trying.”

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