“Sweetheart,” Mom says when I walk into the kitchen. “I baked cookies. Would you like one?”

“Sure, thanks.”

“They’re your favorite triple Cs.”

Again, triple Cs were my favorite when I was ten, but I’m not going to complain. They’re still delicious, even though it means I have to add a few more miles to my run now. Triple C was my name for them since they are chocolate chip caramel cookies. Now that I think about it, they technically should be quadruple Cs.

Coming home has been interesting, to say the least. Since I don’t yet have a job here, I’ve been at the house almost twenty-four seven with Mom, and gotten to see up-close how the disease has affected her. I’m not sure how much longer I can do it. I don’t blame my dad for going out to the golf course or refusing to retire. It’s tough to be around. And then I feel bad because it isn’t her fault she forgets us and forgets things. And she shouldn’t be secluded because of it.

Regardless, I’ve sent out some resumes and have an interview in OKC next week. I’d rather not have to commute, especially since I want to spend time with my mom, so if they want me, they’re going to have to be willing to negotiate.

I take a bite of the cookie, then search around for a way to discreetly spit it back out.

“What’s going on with you?” Mom says. “You seem sad lately.”

I try to wave away her concern while wiping my face with a napkin. Hopefully she won’t notice that the wipe is extra long and thorough. “I’m fine. Really.”

She pulls a stool over for me and sits down on the one near her. “Did something happen at school?”

I smile and try to put myself in the mindset of college-me. It’s that or bawl. “No, school’s good. It’s other stuff. Life stuff.”

“Girl stuff? Is it that girl Shelby?”

“No, Mom, it’s not Shelby.” Might as well try and sneak some truth in again. “I don’t think she and I are going to work out.”

“That’s a relief.”

“What?”

“Well, I’m sorry. I try to stay out of your personal life, but that girl is bossy. She never lets you be you.”

I’m stunned. I never knew that my mom saw things so clearly. She certainly never let on at the time. Maybe she felt it wasn’t her place, but I still feel regret that maybe the past eight years with Shelby could have been avoided.

“I thought there was someone else,” I tell her. Might as well. She won’t remember this conversation tomorrow. “But it didn’t work out.”

“What are they like?”

My brain catches her pronoun usage. It’s almost like she knows, or at least suspects. But if this is college-era Mom, there’s no way that could be the case.

“They’re amazing. They make me want to take risks and experience everything I possibly can. They make me view the world in ways I never would have before. They’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met.”

Mom watches me in the way moms do when they think we aren’t looking. Like we’re the most wonderful thing ever created.

“Why didn’t it work out?”

“I messed up.” Mom of two years ago would have insisted such a thing wasn’t possible. College-era Mom has no such hesitations. She nods knowingly and encourages me to continue. “I got wrapped up in other things and treated them like they didn’t mean as much to me as they do.”

“Did you apologize? Tell them you were wrong?”

“I did, and I think they forgave me, but I’m back here now. It’s too late.”

“It’s never too late to try.”

“I’m scared to try.”

Mom takes my hand in hers and squeezes tight. Her skin is tight and dry and crinkly against mine. “That doesn’t sound like my boy. What are you scared of?”

She won’t remember, I remind myself. But I still turn around to make sure Dad didn’t magically appear out of nowhere. “I’m scared of what you and Dad will think. I’m scared that I’ll screw up again and hurt them. I’m scared that I’ve never felt this way before.”

“Parker. Pardon my French, but fuck what your father and I will think.”

This is definitely not college-era Mom. This Mom has never existed that I can recall. Maybe she’s reverted even further back to her own rebellious years? I have no idea, but I can’t decide whether to laugh or feel cheated at only getting the appearances-are-what-matters Mom.

“We aren’t going to be living the rest of your life. You are. So the only opinion that should matter is yours. And if this … person …” Yep, Mom definitely knows. “Makes you happy, then that’s all I’ve ever wanted for you. I hope you know that.”

I throw my arms around her neck and pull her close. If she feels a sudden wetness on her neck, she doesn’t let on.

“So are you going after what you want? Be the man I raised you to be?” she says against my collarbone. “Because if he doesn’t drop everything for you after hearing all that …” We both tense at her sudden pronoun change, but she rubs my back through it. “Then he doesn’t deserve you.”

Well, if she’s going there, I might as well too. Fuck.

“They. You probably don’t remember, but Mal’s nonbinary. They use ‘they’ pronouns.”

“That’s right, of course,” Mom says in the voice that I now recognize means she doesn’t remember at all but doesn’t want to offend anyone by having forgotten something.

I sit back down and fiddle with the remainder of my uneaten, nasty-ass cookie. “If I go after what I want, then I won’t be staying here.”

“Sweetheart,” Mom says and leans back to grab a cookie for herself. “It would be weird if you stayed here forever with us. As much as I love you, I don’t want you to live with us forever. I want to see you spread your wings and soar through your life. That’s what would make me a satisfied mother.”

She takes a bite of cookie and grimaces.

“Oh my god, that’s nasty. What the fuck did I do?”

I burst into full-belly laughter that also helps hide the tears. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be here, but I’m going to enjoy this version of Mom for as long as I can.