Page 70 of The Troll’s Summer Flame

“Well—”

“Please? You and Daddy need to meet Gordon. Soon.” I close my laptop. Work is six weeks away, and I have other things on my mind. I promised I’d give Gordon his first real piano lesson tonight. We need a break from the cabin—and he misses Chopin. So do I. As Mom makes spluttering noises in surprise, I pick up the cat and carry him to the piano, digging in the bench for my collection of basics for older beginners.

“Soon? Why soon? You didn’t... You aren’t...”

“In love? Yes. Thinking about settling down with a kind, quiet, mature pillar of the community and a heroic first responder? Yes. Making sound decisions about my future? Absolutely. So, before I go picking out wedding gowns, don’t you think you ought to meet him?”

“Wedding gowns! Slow down, anak!”

“I’m not actually rushing, Mom,” I chuckle, crossing my fingers. To some, this would be a rush. To me? I already know what the right choice is. I’ve never felt this way, and neither has Gordon. Our worlds are different, but we discover new things together. “I’m very happy, and I really like Gordon. I love Gordon,” I declare, holding my breath as I wait for the backlash.

Silence.

“Sometimes you know so fast. Like you and Dad, right?”

“Right,” Mom says softly. “Okay. I think we can come up sooner. What about this weekend?”

“Uh. Maybe next weekend? Gordon took a few days off with me earlier in the week, and I haven’t checked his work schedule.” And he has to track down a succubi or her victim, and it just might be a little hectic.

“Yes. Yes, we will be there. Will his parents be there?”

“Um. No. His father passed away, and his mother isn’t well. He has brothers, but they’re all far away.”

“Hm.”

“So, this means that you can mother him. He’s never had a nice mom like you. His mother was... Well, she wasn’t a patient person. Probably needed therapy and didn’t get it.” I wince. How else can I describe my potential mother-in-law? She’s a troll, Mom. She ate people. She was what we’d call a cannibal, a serial killer, and a child abuser—and it was totally okay in her culture.

“Did you cook for him?” Mom’s voice is suddenly pointed.

“Yes, I—”

“What did you make? Did you make pancit? Did you make Daddy’s stew? Did you—”

“I didn’t make those things yet, but I will.”

“No. We will. We will come on Friday and cook all day, and he will come for dinner. Does he own his own house?”

“Yes, and it’s beautiful. Um. If I moved in there, I would save so much money. Enough money to pay for a big chunk of my own wedding.”

Explosive hissing makes me drop my phone. Even from the phone’s new place on the floor, I can hear Mom telling me exactly what kind of ancestral curse will befall the family if I pay for my own wedding, and exactly what saints I need to consult for forgiveness for the grave offense of even suggesting it.

Chopin leaps down from the piano and investigates, batting at the screen. He probably thinks there’s some small, exceedingly angry bug trapped in there. “Mom. Stop. I was just trying to help out.”

“If you want to help out, you will set up a college fund for your children! He wants children, doesn’t he? Some men are just big, spoiled babies. They don’t want children. They want a wife, but they don’t want to do the hard work of being a husband!”

“Gordon is the most husband-ready guy I’ve ever met, Mom. He’s already planning where to build a swingset for our kids. I’m not rushing into that part, but I like that he thinks about it. He had a rotten childhood and a rotten family. Instead of being someone who shies away from responsibility, he goes and searches it out. He looks for ways to make sure he’s better than where he came from. I... I’m so proud of him, Mom. I’m so proud to have him in my life. So proud to be his girlfriend.”

“Send a picture.”

I roll my eyes, but push the appropriate buttons on the phone to appease her. “It’s going to your text messages, Mom.”

“I’ve never heard you talk like that, Andrea,” she muses. “Ohhhh. Oh! Oh, he’s a fine, fine-looking man. Oh, my goodness. His hair! Such a head of hair. And that face. He looks so happy with you—and more importantly, you look happy with him.”

“Mom, why is that more important?” I challenge with a laugh.

“Because you are my daughter, and your happiness will always come first. You will understand that one day,” she snaps. “But I like this boy. He has a good face. I will send this picture to the family chat so all of your titas can see, too.”

“What?! Mom, wait, I—”