Page 10 of Under Southern Stars
“What do you mean?”
“You’re humming. You never hum.” She sets down her pencil and studies me with the intense focus she usually reserves for particularly challenging homework problems. “And you’ve been doing it a lot lately.”
“I hum!” I protest, though even as I say it, I can’t remember the last time I have.
“Mom. You whistle sometimes when you’re really concentrating. You sing along with the radio in the car. But you don’t just…hum.” She tilts her head. “It’s nice. Different, but nice.”
I consider this, stirring the sauce more slowly. “Different how?”
“I don’t know. Lighter? Like…” She searches for the right words. “Like you’re not carrying something heavy all the time.”
The observation hits me unexpectedly. Out of the mouths of babes. “I don’t carry anything heavy.”
“Mom.” Madison’s voice carries that particular teenage inflection that manages to convey both affection and gentle exasperation. “You carry everything heavy. Work stress, money stress, Dad stress, me stress—”
“You’re not stress,” I interrupt quickly.
“I’m teenager stress, which is totally different but definitely still stress.” She grins. “But you just seem…I don’t know. Happier? More relaxed?”
I turn to face her fully, leaning against the counter. “You notice all that?”
“I live here too, Mom. Kind of hard to miss when the general atmospheric tension decreases.” She returns to her chemistry equations. “Not complaining, by the way. It’s nice.”
For a moment, I just watch her work—this remarkable person I’ve somehow managed to raise despite all my mistakes and uncertainties. When has she become so perceptive? So emotionally intelligent?
“Madison?”
“Mmm?”
“Do you remember Dad ever noticing when I was happy or sad?”
She looks up, her expression suddenly serious. “…Honestly? No. Dad notices when you disagree with him or when you are not doing what he wanted you to do. But just…your moods? Whether you are okay?” She shakes her head. “I don’t think he pays attention to that stuff.”
The casual honesty of it stings, even though I’d known it was true. Troy was excellent at cataloging my failures but utterly blind to my emotional state unless it directly affected him.
“But you notice,” I say.
“Of course I notice. You’re my mom.” Madison’s tone suggests this is the most obvious thing in the world. “Plus, you take care of everyone else all the time. Someone should take care of you too.”
I feel an unexpected tightness in my throat. “I’m fine, baby. I don’t need—”
“Everyone needs someone to notice when they’re happy,” Madison interrupts gently. “Even moms.”
I turn back to the stove, ostensibly to check the pasta but really to compose myself. When has my daughter become so wise?
“So,” Madison says, clearly sensing the need for a subject change. “What’s making you happy? New coffee blend? Finally get decent residents who don’t try to kill patients?”
I laugh despite myself. “Something like that.”
“Good. You deserve to be happy, Mom. You know that, right?”
The simple statement hits me harder than it should have. “I…yes. Of course.”
“I’m not sure you do know that,” Madison says thoughtfully. “Sometimes I think you believe you have to earn happiness instead of just…having it.”
I stare at her, wondering when my fifteen-year-old has become a therapist. “Where did that come from?”
“AP Psychology. Also, living with you for fifteen years.” She grins. “You’re not as mysterious as you think you are.”
