Page 54 of The Rehoboth Retreat
Cecilia studied me for a moment. Then she smiled, softly this time. “You know, for someone who lives their entire life in control, in order, with color-coded calendars and pre-portioned quinoa, you sure are bad at recognizing when the universe is giving you a gift.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” She sipped. “Why must your life always be a script? A recipe with steps, measurements, and preheating instructions? Do you not realize how exhausting it is watching you treat your feelings like baking powder—measured precisely, never too much, lest the whole thing collapse?”
I opened my mouth to retort, but nothing came out.
My mother pressed on, her voice lighter now, but thoughtful. “Maybe it’s time to toss the recipe, darling. Maybe it’s time to cook without instructions. See what happens. Surprise yourself.”
I looked down at Topper, who gave me a sleepy blink. Then, back at my mother. Her eyes were tired but wise, knowing but kind. And annoyingly,… probably right.
I didn’t say anything.
Because maybe I didn’t need to.
At least not yet.
Cecilia and I sat in that dimly lit living room, the kind of lighting that blurred the lines between comfort and vulnerability. The sort of glow that made your thoughts softer, more honest. The waves outside had quieted some, now just a steady hush against the shore—a lullaby in the background. Topper had given up trying to understand our conversation and retreated to his favorite blanket on therug, already asleep and twitching in a dream about who knows what.
I sat forward and rested my elbows on my knees, staring down at the woven pattern of the rug, tracing it with my eyes as if it might lead me to some kind of answer. My mother had gone silent, too, swirling the last of her champagne around in the glass. The silence between us wasn’t awkward—it was lived-in, like a familiar old song we both knew the words to but weren’t ready to sing just yet.
“You know,” I finally said, my voice softer now, “I sometimes wonder what would’ve happened if I’d just loosened up a bit. If I hadn’t treated my marriage like a curated museum exhibit. Everything clean, labeled, and behind glass.”
She glanced at me without speaking, just listening. Letting me open the drawer, one confession at a time.
“I planned everything,” I said. “I mean, I really planned it. Sunday morning omelets. Quarterly getaways. Anniversary dinners that required reservation spreadsheets. Everything had its place. Even sex.” I let out a bitter little laugh. “Especially sex.”
Cecilia didn’t say anything, which was both comforting and maddening.
“I thought if I gave us theperfectlife,” I continued, “Owen would always feel taken care of. Like he was lucky to be in it. But I think… I think he just felt like a guest. Like someone who had to keep his shoes off and not touch the walls.”
Still, she was quiet.
I looked over at her. “You can say it. You warned me. More than once.”
She sighed through her nose and leaned back. “Darling, I didn’t want to be right. I wanted you to be happy. But you… you’re so scared of mess. Not just physical mess, but emotional mess, too. Uncertainty. You live like life is a linen closet.”
I smirked despite myself. “Color-coded by shade and size.”
“Exactly.”
I let that sit for a moment, that truth. The heavy kind. The kind you don’t want to carry, but it still rides shotgun.
“Owen told me once,” I said, “during a fight—one of those silent, careful fights where no one raises their voice—that I didn’t leave space for spontaneity. That living with me was like living inside a hotel lobby. Beautiful. Polished. But not…personal.”
I heard the pain in my own voice, and I hated it. Hated how it cracked a little toward the end.
“You loved him,” she said quietly.
“I did.”
“And he betrayed you.”
I nodded. “He did.”
We sat in silence again. The kind that felt more final this time. Like we’d reached the edge of something.
Then I exhaled. A long, deliberate breath. I wasn’t going to cry. I’d already done that. I’d done it in the pantry, holding a broken ramekin. I’d done it in the shower with eucalyptus steam stinging my eyes. I’d done it quietly on the drive to Rehoboth Beach, gripping the wheel like it was the only thing holding me together.
