Page 98 of Mom Com

I don’t know if you remember, but a short while before you left you were making lemon rose cupcakes in the bakery and you asked me if I wanted you there. The question threw me at the time because I didn’t think you ever doubted that. I’ve thought about that conversation a thousand times since. And I know that this is far too late, but I’d like to answer that question now.

Yes, my darling girl, I’ve always wanted you at the bakery. From the moment I met you in the hospital until the day I die and even after I will feel the same. I built it for you, just as my great-grandfather built his for his children. And there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t wish you were here rolling and kneading beside me.

But I also want you to know that I don’t blame you for going. That while I selfishly want you here, I understand. My only true hope is for you to be happy.

With love,

Dad

I stare at his letter, my heart strangled in the grip of his words as tears cloud my vision. I pull it to my chest, immensely grateful he had that dream and the forethought to write me this letter. And although his message addresses something much deeper, I can’t help but wonder why he didn’t try to explain his addendum, why it was so important for him to write it in the first place. Maybe he knew how much I once loved this place and wanted me to give Haverberry another shot? But that doesn’t explain why he gave half of the bakery to Wilder. Or why he waited a year for the addendum to take effect. Although, that part I understand better. An allotment of time for grief. Because everyone knows things gradually get easier, and that at first your heart wants to scream so loudly that the stars cover their ears. No one is prepared to think clearly in the wake of it.

I sit on my bed, clutching his letter, the sound of my pulse thrumming in my temples, and I glance at my phone, wondering once again about Wilder’s part in my dad’s decision. Because even though we spoke about the bakery that night on the beach, I never asked Wilder flat out about the addendum and if he knew why my dad set it up that way. And the longer I stare at Dad’s note, the more the need to know grows stronger, becomes some visceral ache. My dad did this all with intentionality. He thought he was going to die and the last thing he did was write this note and that addendum. He was trying to tell me something or show me something. Logically, it somehow involves Wilder, and if I don’t know the reason, Wilder certainly must.

All of a sudden I’m standing, walking toward my phone, my desire to understand so pressing that I’ve abandoned caution and my tempered plan of not getting riled on Christmas.

I carefully fold Dad’s letter back up, slipping it in the envelope and placing it gently on the bedside table, followed immediately by hastily disconnecting my phone from its charger and pressing the on button.

As expected, there are about a million notifications from Liv. But there’s also one from Wilder time-stamped at 4:36 a.m., suggesting he slept about as well as I did. I click it open, pushing past the bright pang of anxiety.

Wilder: When you’re ready, I’d still very much like the opportunity to explain, to fill you in on things I should have years ago.

I refresh my screen, thinking there must be more because no one would write such a short and cryptic message after last night. But that’s all there is. One sentence.

“Great,” I breathe, shaking my head. He knows I won’t be able to ignore this, that I’ll wonder about it until I finally cave. I growl at the text, ready to blast something back, but think better of it.

Liv said he had bad reception. And there’s nothing worse than having a tense conversation in shoddy, delayed fragments.

“My God, Liv totally played me,” I say, half in awe. I don’t know how she knew, but she definitely did. And before I can think of all the reasons I shouldn’t, I stuff my phone in my back pocket and leave the room. At the top of the stairs, I hesitate, but I’m too hyped up on emotion over my dad’s letter to reconsider. Because if I do leave Haverberry tomorrow, it has to be with a clean slate. I’m not leaving things unsaid, dragging my burning disappointment to California only to find out ten additional years down the line that I didn’t know the half of it.

No. Not again. Not this time.

I stop in the living room, where Spence and Jake are playing with a remote-control car that scales the walls.

“Hey, Mom! Look at this,” Spence says, and makes the thing do a loop around my mother’s sconce.

“Very cool. Just be careful with Grandma’s breakables,” I say, giving him a meaningful look, and plucking my purse off the coffee table.

“I will,” he says like he’s far too mature to be reminded.

“Going somewhere?” Jake asks.

“Yeah,” I say, and reflexively hesitate, which shifts Jake’s expression to something less smiley, as though my hesitation can only mean one thing—Wilder—and as it turns out, he’s right. I clear my throat. “Yes. There’s something I need to do. I’ll be back soon.”

Jake opens his mouth to say something, and I can already see it’s going to be an objection.

So I cut him off. “You got him, Jake?”

“Yeah, of course,” he responds, and tries to go on, but once again I cut him off.

“Great. There are drinks in the fridge and more sweets than you could ever eat in the kitchen. Spence can show you. See you both soon,” I say, and turn around, putting a kibosh on Jake feeling he can chime in on my relationship with Wilder. And I make a decision here and now that the next time we’re alone, I’m going to tell Jake to nix the flirting, that communication is important, and that I don’t want anything said or done that interferes with our ability to co-parent. Spence comes first. Always.

CHAPTER29

Life Is an Illusion Cake—

it looks like an old shoe, but is actually a triple vanilla bean masterpiece with layers of custard, thinly sliced strawberries, and a whole lotta yum

Driving through my snow-covered town, I’m feeling good about myself, like maybe I’m finally handling the gray areas, clarifying my relationships in a way I couldn’t when I was younger. But as I turn onto Winter Street, my confidence falters or rather gets swallowed up by all-consuming anxiety that I’m making the wrong choice. It’s better to know, I tell myself. I can’t wonder about this forever. I won’t. If I don’t do this, then one day he’ll send another cryptic text and I’ll be reeled in all over again. Just the thought fires me up.