Page 137 of The Breakup Artists

I reluctantly take a seat.

She pulls out a chair and joins me, thinking for a long time before she speaks. “I know we haven’t had the easiest time of it these past few years—”

“It’s not—” I reflexively start to downplay it.

“Let me finish,” she says, and I close my mouth. “I know that a lot of stress, financial and otherwise, has fallen on you, and I know that’s my fault. But what I want you to know is that things are going to change around here. They already are.” Her voice is level and calm.

“Okay,” is all I say, not really sure what that means.

“Your dad—”

“Mom, I really don’t want to talk about him.”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t ask him to come speak with you. I don’t know why I said that. I mean, I hoped he’d want to. But that’s not why I called him.”

I glance at the door, wishing I’d climbed out the window and avoided this entirely.

“I called him to tell him that either he pays what he owes in back child support, including taking responsibility for his share of Des’s funeral expenses, or I’ll take him to court.”

I stare at my mom. Des tried to convince her to insist on child support over and over, and she wouldn’t even discuss it. “And he agreed?”

“Well, he did when I told him that I wouldn’t hesitate to enlighten his new fiancé on a few... personal matters.”

I don’t ask her what she means by that, and she doesn’t explain. “You threatened him?” And for the first time during this conversation, lightness sneaks into my tone.

“‘Threatened’ is a strong word. I like to think of it as persuasion to do the right thing.” She gets up and moves to the counter, grabbing something from the stack of bills.

She holds out her hand, and there, sitting in her palm, is a check. But when I see the recipient, I nearly fall out of my chair. “Wait... hang on,” I say, standing. “This check is made out tome?”

She smiles. “It doesn’t come close to what you deserve, but it’s a start.”

I stare at her in disbelief. “But the—” My eyes move to the bills once more.

“Between the Kellermans and the gallery, I’ll be able to handle things around here for a while.”

“I honestly don’t know what to say,” I reply. And after reading the check two more times just to make sure it’s real, I do something I never do—I hug her.

And she’s delighted. She pulls me close and wraps her arms around my back. She smells familiar—like canvas and lavender, reminding me of all the times I used to sit on her lap and watch her paint as a child. For a moment I consider pulling away, but something in me doesn’t want to—the part of me that unlocked when I yelled at that tree. So instead, I relax, pressing my cheek into her hair. As I do, I catch sight of the paint splatters on the floor, the ones Mom swore would come up and never did.

“Throw it! Throw the paint at the canvas!” she exclaimed.

“But what if I miss?” I asked, looking at the clean kitchen and wondering what Dad might do if he found us slinging paint in it.

“Then you miss. Mess is part of life, August; you can’t avoid it.”

“What about Dad?” I asked. “He’s never messy.”

She studied me. “Your dad is one of those people who thinks that if he seeks order, he can stop mess from existing at all. Like people who think that if they chase happiness correctly, they’ll find the magic solution to avoid suffering. But it doesn’t work like that. Mess defines order. Suffering defines happiness. You cannot have one without the other. Me? I embrace mess. I invite it in, because once in a while it’s absolutely glorious.”

She scooped up a blob of paint with her finger and winked at me. So I did the same. And we attacked the canvas. We wiped our hands on it. We threw paint at it. We laughed until we couldn’t breathe.

“Thanks, Mom,” I say as she releases me from the hug. “Really.”

“And August?” She tucks a stray curl into her loose bun. “I don’t want you to feel like this means you need to talk to your dad. That’s still entirely your choice.”

“I appreciate that.” And it feels intrinsically good to not be pressured.

I grab my coffee and head for the door but turn back and say, “I think you’re going to do great at that gallery. I’m really proud of you.” And when I close the door behind me, she’s beaming.