Rhys raises his hand slightly, then lowers it with a sheepish smile.
“That’d be me,” he says. “Most days.”
She turns to Corwyn. “And you’re the one with the books.”
“I plead guilty,” he says.
Her eyes settle on Tyler last, and he gives her his best smile—charming, a little crooked, and entirely sincere.
“I’m the one who’ll probably say something dumb but will fix it before dessert,” he says.
My mom snorts.
“I like that one,” she tells me, not quietly.
We settle in after that, the tea poured, the pie sliced. Conversation is light, easy. I watch them slowly relax—Rhys cracks a joke about his first failed attempt at lemon meringue, Corwyn asks about the books in her library (of course he noticed them), and Tyler tells her about how Rhys nearly electrocuted himself fixing the old generator.
“I fixed it,” Rhys protests.
“Barely,” he shoots back. “Your hair stood up for a week!”
My mom laughs so hard she nearly spills her tea.
After dessert, I help her in the kitchen. She doesn’t say anything for a while. Just washes a dish, hands it to me to dry.
Eventually she says: “So.”
“So,” I echo.
“They’re all yours?”
I pause. “Yeah.”
“You’re sure?”
I glance back toward the living room. I can hear Rhys laughing at something Corwyn said. Tyler’s voice is lower, saying something I can’t quite make out, but it’s gentle. Warm.
“I’ve never been more sure.”
She nods.
“Good,” she says. “Because I’ve never seen you this alive before.”
That hits me.
“You’re not… upset?”
She gives me that look. The one that says “have you met me?”
“Sweetheart, I raised you to know your worth. If three men—strong, kind, clearly in love with you—recognize that? I’m not going to stand in the way of it. I’m going to celebrate it.”
I laugh, surprised by the sting of tears behind my eyes.
“You’ll always be welcome here,” she says, more softly now. “I expect you to visit and not just let them distract you.”
“I will.”
She kisses my cheek. “Your Dad would have loved them, and loved who well they treat you.”