Page 119 of Love, Second Chances and Other Nonsense
“I…” she finally manages. “I am your mother!”
“No,” I say, my voice steady and cold. “You’re not. Not anymore. You lost the right to call yourself that a long time ago.”
She recoils as if I’ve struck her. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that you failed me,” I tell her, the words I’ve held inside for years finally breaking free. “I deserved to be allowed to be a kid. I deserved a mother who loved me for who I was, not who you wanted me to be.”
“I did love you!” she protests. “Everything I did was for you, for our family!”
“No, everything you did was for you.” The truth of it settles into my bones as I speak it aloud. “I should never have been made responsible for Millie’s happiness. It was cruel to both of us. I deserved to be allowed to date who I wanted. Love who I wanted. Live the life I wanted.”
Paula shakes her head, tears gathering in her eyes now. But I recognize them for what they are, a calculated attempt to regaincontrol, not genuine remorse. I’ve seen this performance too many times before.
“I gave you everything,” she insists. “Everything! And this is how you repay me? By throwing away your future? By abandoning your family for… for her?” She gestures dismissively toward the car where Caitlin waits.
“Caitlin is my future,” I tell her simply. “She’s more family to me than you ever were.”
Paula flinches. “You don’t mean that. You’re confused, Adam. That girl has poisoned you against your own family—”
“This conversation is over,” I cut her off. “You may as well forget you ever had a son, Paula. Because from this moment forward, you don’t.”
The finality of the words settles between us. I see the moment she realizes I really mean it. Her face crumples, not in grief but in the recognition of her loss of power over me.
I turn away from her, walking around to the driver’s side of the car. As I open the door, she calls out once more, her voice breaking.
“Adam, please! You can’t just—”
But I’m already sliding into the driver’s seat, closing the door on her words. Through the windshield, I see her standing there, mouth still moving, hands outstretched in supplication or demand; with Paula, it’s hard to tell the difference.
I start the engine, and Caitlin’s hand finds mine across the console.
“You okay?” she asks softly.
I take a deep breath, then nod. “Yeah. I think I am.”
And I am, surprisingly. There’s a lightness in my chest I haven’t felt in years, as if I’ve set down a burden I’ve been carrying for so long I’d forgotten the weight of it. I put the car in reverse, then drive forward, leaving Paula standing alone in theparking lot, growing smaller in my rearview mirror with every second.
“I’m gonna go back tonight. Settle things with Dad. Then, once we’re sure he’s going to be okay, let’s go home,” I say to Caitlin, and I realize I don’t mean the hotel. I mean Oregon. I mean the life we’re building together, far away from Mount Pella and all its ghosts.
Caitlin squeezes my hand, a smile touching her lips. “Home sounds perfect.”
44
Chapter 44
Caitlin
I wipe my sweaty palms on my apron for the third time in as many minutes, surveying the food truck with a mixture of pride and terror. Louise’s Table is now mobile, or at least it is for the three days. Through the serving window, I can see the empty festival grounds stretching before us. Soon, this quiet will explode into noise and movement and hungry people, and I’ll know if all our hard work these last few months was worth it.
“Caitlin, where do you want these?” Adam calls from behind me, holding a box of condiments.
“We set up a table out there,” I tell him, gesturing to the table set up just off to the side of the truck. I watch as he sets them out with careful precision. His t-shirt reveals his tanned, muscular forearms dusted with dark hair. I’ll never tire of watching him.
It’s hard to believe how far we’ve come since our trip to Mount Pella, since Adam faced down his mother in that hospitalparking lot and cut the poisonous cord that had been strangling him his entire life. Sometimes I still catch him looking startled by his own happiness, like he can’t quite believe he’s allowed to have it.
Behind us, the grill sizzles as Uncle Peter lays down the first test patties of the day. Aunt Charlene is placing cinnamon rolls that she baked fresh this morning on small styrofoam plates and wrapping them in plastic.
“Dad called this morning,” Adam says, coming to stand beside me at the window. “He’s walking a mile every day now. He’s planning on moving out of Lauren and Jake’s place and back into his townhome next week.”
