Page 110 of That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe
“Huh. That’s a little bit like the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it?” I tease. “You pushed me to succeed almost as hard as Dad did.”
“Hmm.” She pulls down her brow. “You think so?”
“Of course I do!” I gape at her, surprised she might be unaware of this. “You were always super-focused on my grades and test scores and applications. You wanted me to get accepted to all the top schools too. Maybe even more than Dad and I did.”
“Only because I never had a chance to,” she blurts. Then she slams her lips shut.
“Mom.” I take a beat to examine her face. “You never had a chance towhat?”
She glances around the room, although there’s no one else within earshot. “Believe me, Sara, I’m very happy being Mrs. Charles Hathaway. I always have been, and I always will be.” She lowers her voice, and herthroat begins to flush. “But my entire adult life centered around being his wife, and then your mother. I oversee our home, not our bank accounts. That’s how I was raised—to be the support system of a family. A homemaker. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. But maybe …” She inclines her head closer to my ear. “Maybea part of me wanted my only daughter to have … options.”
“Wow,” I say a little breathless, mostly because the rest of the air is leaving my lungs. It takes me a moment to fill them back up again. “How come you’ve never said any of this before?”
She squares her shoulders before responding. “I suppose I didn’t want to sound like I was complaining.” She tips her chin. “And I’m not sure I knew exactly how I felt myself. Not until my therapist asked about me andmymother. Then we got onto the subject of expectations, and the next thing you know …” She shrugs.
“You’re in therapy?” I stare at my mother, wide-eyed. This, more than almost anything else in the past few days, might be the most shocking. “I mean, I think it’s great. But you have a therapist? For real?”
“For most of this year.” She offers a prim nod. “Doctor Hahn is fabulous. Didn’t I tell you about her?”
“No. You most certainly did not tell me.”
“Well, you really should try therapy yourself, Sara.” She says this like the fact that therapy can be effective is some kind of new information. “It’s done wonders for our marriage.”
“I’ll bet.” I cough out a laugh. “Dr. Hahn sure seems to be bringing out the honesty in you.”
“Now, Sara.” She lays a palm on my shoulder. “I don’t want you to think I haven’t been perfectly content with my life.Morethan content.”
“I know that.”
“Ilovemy life.”
“I know that too, Mom.”
Her eyes laser in on mine. “Do you, though?”
“Yes.” I squint up at her, confused. “I just said that. I know you love your life. And I’m so glad.”
“No.” She meets my gaze again, her eyes softening this time. “I mean doyouloveyourlife?”
Oh. OH.
I draw in a rush of air. “Of course I do.”
“Because I have to say”—she tips her chin—“you haven’t seemed truly happy in a very long time. Not since … well…” She lets her sentence die off.
“Since when?”
Her brows pinch together. “Since that last summer you and I were in Abieville.”
Whoa.
“That’s why I talked your father into buying the Peabodys’ lake house,” she goes on. “I wanted a project, and I thought the investment would be sound—you know I enjoy a good renovation—but I also have such fond memories of that place. I felt like you and I had fun there, even when Daddy had to leave during the week. Just the two of us.” Her voice is quiet now, and a dull ache leaks into my heart.
“You’re right, Mom. We did have fun together. And Iwashappy.”
More pinching of the brow. “Until you broke up with that boy.”
My stomach lurches. “Three broke up with me, Mom. You know that.”
