“That’s more than I deserve.”
A pause. Then she said something unexpected.
“Craig told me something last night after we got home.”
“What?”
“He said, ‘Your family needs help, Meredith. Professional help.’ He said he won’t move forward with the wedding until I address this.”
I thought about Craig on the back porch 2 years ago.
“Your mom seems complicated.”
The man had been paying attention all along.
“I think he’s right,” Meredith said quietly.
“So do I.”
Neither of us said goodbye. She hung up first.
I sat on the edge of the bed and watched the gray morning light push through the curtain.
That afternoon, I drove back to my parents’ house. Not for reconciliation, not for round two. I was picking up Ruth’s overnight bag and the tin of shortbread we’d left on the kitchen counter.
The house was quiet. The decorations from yesterday’s dinner were still up. Candles burned to nubs. The tablecloth still creased where 31 place settings had been. It smelled like cold gravy and regret.
My mother sat at the kitchen table, eyes swollen, no makeup. She was wearing a sweatshirt I hadn’t seen in years. An old Yukon one, faded, the kind of thing she’d never let anyone see her in.
My father sat next to her, coffee mug in front of him, untouched.
“Ivy, can we talk?” My mother said.
I stood in the doorway.
“I’m listening.”
“I made mistakes. I know that.”
She pressed her hands flat on the table, steadying herself.
“But you have to understand, I grew up with nothing. People look down on our family. I just wanted us to look right.”
“And I wasn’t right enough.”
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