Page 25 of To Catch a Firefly

I take a look at the bowl she’s pointing at and nod. It is pretty, but it’s not what I’m looking for.

We continue along the zigzagging aisles of the antique shop, my gait slow to match my mom’s. She’s using her walking aid today, and the wheels squeak lightly when she turns. I stop to look at an old set of Stanley Bailey woodworking planes as she examines a teapot with a scrolling blue design along the side.

“How’s Lucky?” she asks, splitting the silence.

I catch her eye and nod.

“Where’s he at now?”

I clear my throat. “The city.”

“Ah,” she says. “Back in New York.”

I give a nod. He’s never there for long between assignments. The magazine sends him out a couple times a month. With Dani, his new partner.

“I saw that article on the sea turtle migration,” she says. “Where was that?”

“Indonesia,” I answer after a moment, stepping along with my mom as she walks into a new aisle. There’s furniture here, and some old, ratty dolls.

“That’s right. His pictures were beautiful.”

Always are.

I know the ones she’s talking about, though. Lucky must have been right down in the sand with the turtles because it looks like they’re straining toward him, not the ocean. One of the pictures in particular made headlines. In it, the turtle, newly hatched, had wire hanging from its flipper. Lucky told me after the fact that they removed the trash before the turtle could make it to the water, but it was a stark reminder of how humans are impacting the environment, and more than one talk show featured the article with the photograph Lucky took.

“I talked to Marcus yesterday,” my mom says, throwing me for a loop. She glances at me before going on. “Put in my notice.”

“Mom,” I say a little sadly.

She shakes her head. “It’s time, baby. And don’t give me that look,” she adds. “You’ll always be my baby, you know that.”

I nod, and my mom sighs.

“My legs are going,” she says factually, “and I can barely type anymore.” To prove her point, she holds out her hand. The tremor is more pronounced than it used to be, but when she grabs onto her walker again, I can barely see it. “I’m finishing out the month, and then I’ll be done.”

I’d tell her I’m sorry, but I know she doesn’t want to hear it. And at fifty-four, maybe she’d be ready to retire, even without the MS spurring her on.

“Gabby will be taking over for me,” she says.

Gabby has worked in the office for over a year now. She moved to town from South Dakota and has a dog named Toodles—factsI know because Gabby likes to chat in a friendly way. I don’t mind it when I’m in the office, and she doesn’t seem to care that I don’t say much back.

“She’s cute, don’t you think?” my mom says, shocking me to a standstill. She stops, turning to look at me. “No?”

When I continue staring, she huffs a laugh and walks on. My mom never asks me about dating or girls. Or guys, for that matter.

“That’s a no, then,” she says, almost to herself.

I catch up quickly, and my mom gives my arm a shaky pat.

“I won’t pry,” she says. “You’re an adult, and we had the talk long ago, so I know those bases are covered.”

We had quite a few talks, actually, when I was a teenager. My mom lectured me on safe sex (of all kinds). She gave me a box of condoms (that I never used). And she explained consent to me numerous times (including the fact thatIcould say no, too).

But beyond that, she’s never tried to meddle in my love life. Until—maybe—now.

“All I want,” she goes on, “is for you to be happy, whether that’s with someone or without. But you know I’m here if you ever have questions. You’re never too old to need your mother.”

I give my mom a sharp nod, and she reaches up to brush my hair behind my ear. She can barely manage it these days while we’re standing, now that I’m a good foot taller than her and she’s a little more shaky on her feet. But it feels familiar, that action, and my heart aches.

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