Page 82 of Falling for You Again

“We’re going deep here.”

“We are. From what you’ve told me, I think you harbor a belief that you’re not enough to be truly loved and valued. And I think witnessing Aaron potentially have a family so much like what you crave, with a woman other than yourself, triggered your fears of inadequacy, which, as you say, stems from your parents’ lack of interest and affection. They have done quite a number on you over the years, making you believe you’re less than you really are or deserve to be. You might even believe you aren’t good enough to be a mother to his child because you’re terrified of re-creating your own family’s dysfunctional dynamic. This fear manifested in you making a self-sacrificing decision to step aside because you’re convinced you aren’t the right person for him in the long run. Because wasn’t all of this with him supposed to be pretend?”

I inhale a deep, shuddering breath. “Whoa, okay. You went right for the heart.”

“The only rule in pool that matters, I say, is to aim straight for the pocket.”

I laugh dryly. “That’s a lot to absorb.”

“It is. I tend to get carried away with my advice, but I’m old. Beating around the bush is a waste of time, and I don’t have much of that left either. Why waste a perfectly good minute? So I’ll tell you this too: nobody, and I mean nobody, can tell Aaron who the right person for him is but him. And it sounds like he’s already told you it’s you. One more thing, since I’m on a roll: it’s a shame Artisant Designs is closing. But it’s even more of a shame you don’t intend to exercise your craft. You are so skilled.”

“My heart just isn’t into it. The spark is waning.”

“But it’s not completely out, now is it? Take a break; clear your head. But don’t do yourself a disservice. Listen to the rhythm of falling leaves.”

I frown. “The rhythm of falling leaves?”

“Every moment in life is a chance to create something beautiful, with someone or for someone. Even for yourself. Embrace the impermanence of life, like falling leaves. What you’re going through right now is but one of many seasons for you. Use these moments to prepare your masterpiece. In other words, your creativity won’t be sequestered for long. It will resurface, and when it does, you’ll be ready to find an appropriate outlet. This time, it’ll be what’s right for you, not what anyone—your uncle, your parents, that blockhead ex-fiancé of yours, even Aaron—tell you.”

I slowly nod along to her advice and wipe the moisture from my face when she finishes. “Thank you,” I whisper.

“Well.” She leans back with a sigh. “I bet you didn’t expect this conversation to be part of your delivery package.”

I laugh. “No, but I think I needed to have it.”

“Because you were ready to have it. What you do with what I said is up to you. But please, stay for dinner. I’d love the company. After spending weeks abroad with my loud family, this house is too quiet.”

The thought of returning to an empty, dark apartment (kitty cat aside) fills me with dread and a longing for a specific someone to be waiting for me at home.

“I would love to join you for dinner. Thank you.”

Isadora cooks us a delectable meal of mushroom raviolis in a buttery sauce with fresh Parmesan and a fine Italian red wine while sharing stories of her trip to Italy and reminiscing about growing up with her older brother who passed away. It’s after 10:00 p.m. when I leave her house. I park the truck in front of my apartment since I’m driving in to work tomorrow. There will be lots of back-and-forth between the shop and storage as I clean out Uncle Bear’s building.

On my way inside, I text Dad a reminder to pick up his desk tomorrow. I’m looking down at my phone and don’t notice Mom until we’re standing beside each other, waiting for the elevator.

I put my phone away. “Hello, Mom. You’re out late.”

“I went for a walk,” she says in a shaky voice. Her bottom lip wobbles and she glances away.

I frown. It’s not unusual for her to walk alone, but it is at this late hour. Then I remember Dad moved out.

“Is everything all right?”

She opens her purse, interested in something inside. “Yes, it’s fine. I’m fine.”

She is clearly not fine.

The elevator arrives and we get on. We turn to face the doors as they close. Maybe it’s because we’re once again sharing an elevator and not saying a word. Maybe it’s because I’m feeling emotionally drained after visiting with Isadora. Or maybe it’s because the talking-to I’ve wanted—the one I needed to hear—didn’t come from Mom but a client with a heart big enough to care. Someone who wasn’t my mom or dad or uncle who realized thatIwas not all right. I turn to face her. “Why don’t you ever talk to me?”

“What?” She looks up, surprised.

“Why do you act like you don’t care? Other than when we’re at the shop or hanging out at Uncle Bear’s on holidays and birthdays, you treat me like I’m nobody to you, like you could care less about me or what I do. You treat me like an outsider in my own family. All of you do! I’myour daughter, for Pete’s sake. You used to love me so much. When did you stop? What did I do to make you and Dad hate me? I’m so sick of holding on to this stupid fantasy of us ever being a close-knit family again.” And because my emotions are riding high, I once again burst into tears. I haven’t cried this much since I was a child. I haven’t cried in front of Mom since she left when I was ten.

Mom looks seriously uncomfortable, her eyes darting about the elevator while I speak. But when I start crying, she haltingly touches my face. It’s a motherly touch, light, tender ... loving, and I go very still, my breath held captive in my throat.

“Meli. Honey. We never stopped loving you. If anything, we love you too much.”

“That makes absolutely no sense. How is that possible?”

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