Page 95 of Mom Com

“I think you owe my daughter an apology.”

My head flies up. Wait, what? I can’t have heard that correctly.

Another pause. “Do not get me started on Kate, that snake. She should count herself lucky Madeline didn’t ambush her after her performance in the holiday market.”

This is not happening. I’m hallucinating. Have to be.

A long minute passes, and I find myself leaning forward, straining to listen even though my mother isn’t speaking.

“What you said was inappropriate and you put her in an untenable position,” she continues. “Now I understand you don’t want your son to work at the bakery and I’m sorry you feel that way. But do you really think that we can control them? It worked for naught when they were seventeen; do you really want to wage that battle again and lose? I lost my daughter for nine years. Don’t make the same mistake I did.”

My eyes are so wide that I wonder if I’ve stretched them permanently out of shape. I almost creep into the hallway just to double-check that it’s really my mom saying these things.

“No, I’m not telling you what to do with your son. I’m telling you what not to do with my daughter. And truly Hannah, I don’t care if Jesus is sitting at your dining room table waiting for his eggs, this is important, and it needs to be said.”

My hand clamps over my mouth, glad that she can’t see my face.

The phone clicks onto the receiver a moment later, and when I hear my mother headed my way, I run back to the table and sit down, bracing my empty cup like a prop. My mother takes one look at me and raises her eyebrow.

Only she doesn’t bring up the fact that she just fought her best friend for me. All she says is, “You hungry?”

And I realize at that moment, that we’re not going to have some cuddly reconciliation where she tells me she’s on my side and everything will be okay. That’s just not her, and for once I don’t need it to be.

“Actually, yeah,” I say, standing up from the breakfast table and putting my cup in the sink.

She nods, moving toward the fridge. “I was thinking about making your dad’s favorite omelet,” she says, “the one stuffed with grilled mushrooms, caramelized onions, and cheese. Maybe some fried potatoes?”

“That sounds perfect,” I say, relinquishing my own menu in favor of hers. “I’ll go wake Spence up so he can de-grumble and then... I can help you prep if you want?”

She gives me a small smile. “That’d be nice, Madeline,” she says slowly, and as I turn around, my eyes fill, only this time from happiness.

Once again, I feel the bright spark of hope glowing among the embers, promising a fire if I provide the wood. And I do. I pile it on. Log after log as we open presents and curl up on the couches under throw blankets to watchMiracle on 34th Street. For the first time since I was little, I don’t feel that itch to escape her, to hold up my shield to block whatever she might throw my way. I just keep thinking about how she said she lost me, that she made a mistake. And on more than one occasion I have to discreetly dab my eyes, overwhelmed by how I interpret those words as an adult, as a parent who knows that it’s impossible to get everything right.

The morning and afternoon pass too quickly, my heart growing like the Grinch’s. I hold my son tight; I laugh with my mom. I would never have imagined it possible, but it’s a pretty perfect Christmas... that is until Liv shows up.

CHAPTER28

Trying Not to Give a Sheet Cake—

cream cheese chocolate cake with a layer of peanut butter frosting, unassuming and impossible to resist

Liv’s Aston Martin slides into our driveway with a purr like a sleek puma. I exchange a glance with my mother, and I know by her nod that she understands I need a minute in private.

“Spence,” she says, not missing a beat. “I just remembered I forgot a couple of stocking stuffers in the closet upstairs. Want to come find them with me?”

“Most definitely!” my nine-year-old says at the prospect of more presents, launching himself off the couch.

As soon as they leave the room, I race to the front door, hoping to get out there before Liv comes in. I forgo a coat, slipping outside just as Liv places one high heel in our driveway.

She retracts her leg back when she sees me, instead leaning over and pushing the passenger door open from the inside.

“So, you’re alive?” she says, giving me a look as I slump into the seat next to her and click the door closed against the chilly air. “Well, that’s a relief. ’Cause I wasn’t sure after I texted you five thousand times with no reply.”

I wince at her words. “I turned my phone off after I left your house last night.”

She grunts like she can’t argue with that decision.

We fall into a momentary silence, and I pull at the edge of my sweater. I was hoping to get through the rest of the day without incident, not that I haven’t been thinking about my fight with Wilder. But it’s one thing to think about it and another to have Liv shine a spotlight on it.