Page 94 of The All-Inclusive

“Good. That’s good.”

She plucks a loose thread on her robe while I take a second to reflect on what’s happened. My cousin and his husband have been here each day, keeping Mom’s spirits high and playing gatekeeper for well-meaning guests. They rented a four-bedroom AirBnB down the block just to have their own space. Even thekids have been helpful, fixing Mom sandwiches and flower arrangements with daisies they found down the street.

All this for the great aunt they’d never met until this week.

Mom’s gaze shifts to her nightstand, where three handmade cards sit propped against a big vase of flowers. The one from Beck’s youngest has a hand-drawn stick figure with fuzzy white hair and a cast on one arm. The other, from Lola, is an oddly lifelike drawing of an armadillo. Sadie wrote her a poem about revenge, which might not be the healthiest theme, but mom seems to like it.

Tears fill her eyes as she studies the cards.

I love you Aunt Becks.

Get well soon!

Vengeance will someday be yours…

I’m not sure if it’s the cards or something else softening my mother. As her gaze shifts to mine, a tear rolls down her cheek.

“I didn’t understand.” She sniffs as I hand her a tissue from the box on her nightstand. “Everything with Beck?—”

“What do you mean?” My heart rate ticks up just a little.

“Cutting him off like I did.” Her mouth twists with regret. “I shouldn’t have done that. I thought—” She sniffs again, wiping her eyes with the tissue. “I don’t even know what I thought.”

I do.

She thought Beck’s “lifestyle” was a “choice” and a “sin.”

She also believed she’d tethered her life to an honorable man.

The same man who fractured her ulna in two spots. The man who tormented their son and their nephew for years.

But not anymore. For the first time, Mom’s taking steps to excise my dad from her life. I don’t know what she discussed onthe phone yesterday with Logan’s mom, but I’m glad she even took the step of talking to her. He texted me her contact information while I was still en route to Portland, saying she’d help connect us with resources for victims of domestic violence.

My mom’s a magician at helping people come around to ideas they’ve resisted in the past.

I assumed he just meant the network his mother runs for women fleeing abuse. But my mom has seemed different since that call. As I study her face now, I see something new as she toys with the fringe on a blanket she knitted when I was eight. My father made fun of its rainbow explosion of colors, calling it a “fucking pride flag.”

Mom just thought the colors were pretty.

Lifting her gaze now, she draws a deep breath. “Trent?”

“Yeah?”

She flattens her palms on the blanket, covering stripes of bright red, orange, yellow, green, and blue. “What happened with you and Sara?”

A tight, hot knot twists in my chest. I have to take three shaky breaths to make the pain go away. “We don’t need to get into that tonight.”

“I can handle it, you know.” Mom looks down at my arm on her lap. “I’m stronger than you give me credit for.”

“You’re the strongest person I know.” God, my chest aches. “I still love Sara. I always will.”

“Then why?—”

“Because sometimes the visions two people have for their futures just don’t line up.”Two people or three.My chest squeezes again and I force myself to swallow. “I’m not the right person for her.”

Mom looks into my eyes. “Is that you saying that or Sara?”

“Does it matter?”

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