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Seren tilts her head. “It almost feels likeyoudo.”

“What have I said that might possibly be taken that way?”

“You’re awfully upset,” she says, “for something you don’t care about.”

I sit back and think about it for a moment. Could she be right? Am I incensed because I’mscared?

“You know what masking emotions are.” Seren shrugs. “And maybe that’s not what’s going on, but anger’s a pretty strong mask.”

Sometimes I hate all the stupid cognitive behavior training Seren’s had. Alright, maybe that’s not true, but I do hate when it feels like someone is analyzing me, even when I asked for it. “You think I’m angry because. . .I’m afraid of writing anything but jingles?”

“You wrote a song first, you know,” she says. “Not a jingle, but a song.”

“For you,” I say. “For your birthday.”

“And then Jake used it for that contest and won.”

“That song may have been what broke him out, but it was the least played song on his first album.”

“Still.” Seren nods. “It could have brokenyouout.”

“I didn’t want that then, and I don’t want it now.”

“Alright,” Seren says. “And that’s fine.”

“I know you think working at the restaurant is a waste of my talent.”

“Have I said that?” Seren stands and picks up ourplates, but she pauses with her face just a few inches from mine. “I’ve always thought that anything you do, as long as it makes you happy, is exactly what you should do, even if it’s collecting trash.”

I should get up and help her, but I don’t. I sit like a scarecrow, not moving, not shifting even a stray piece of straw while she moves around me. Clearing the table. Putting leftovers in the fridge.

“But let’s say that’s right.” I stand up. “Let’s say I should write songs.”

“Okay, let’s say that.” Seren wipes her hands on a towel. “Then what?”

“Why would people I’ve barely met be the ones to point that out?”

“Sometimes it’s the people who don’t know you as well who can see what you need most. They’re impartial and unbiased.”

“Is that what you think?”

“Does it matter what I think?”

“It does to me,” I say. “A great deal.”

Seren sets the towel down and crosses the room. She brushes a hand against my cheek. “I think you’re exceptionally talented, but I’ve never been sure whether you’d be happier writing songs and living a flashier life—whether you should push through that childhood trauma and move past it—or whether you’re someone who has always and would always have wanted a quiet life at home.” She gestures around her. “I love my life. I make lasagna. I care for the inn and my children, and it’s everything I ever wanted. I didn’t have trauma as a child, but back then, I never wanted people staring at me and complimenting my face.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “But I don’t want to project my desires on you. You might not want what I want.”

There’s no one I’d rather be like. “What if I do?”

“There’s no shame in that,” Seren says with a soft smile. “But you’re every bit as amazing and just as much my daughter if youdowant something different.” A tear rolls down her cheek. “That’s what true love is, I think. Wanting your child to succeed in whatever waytheywant to succeed, and helping them do it in any way you can.”

“Mrs. Stevens seems really happy, writing jingles,” I say. “And she never has to leave her family room to do it. She teaches there, too.”

“Mrs. Stevens is a gifted teacher, and I think she really likes you,” Seren says. “But she’s also using you—has been for years.”

“What?” Today’s apparently the day for Seren to say a million things I never expected. “How so?”

“She told me about two years into teaching you that you were the most talented songwriter she’d ever met.” Seren sighs. “Then she proceeded to have you help her sell dozens and dozens of jingles.” She shrugs. “You were happy with it, so I never intervened, but I’ve thought she was taking advantage of your talent for a very long time. She should have found you work years ago, but she’s selfishly told you she couldn’t help.”

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