Nevada

I’m wiping sticky syrup off Lennon’s hands Saturday morning when my mother takes a seat at the head of the kitchen table, watching me.

“You’re so good with those girls.” She wears a sleepy smile, her cheek resting against the top of her hand and her hair disheveled. A fluffy gray robe covers her pajamas, and she looks exhilaratingly tired.

As a single mother for most of our childhoods, I imagine she missed out on these kinds of simple pleasures like making pancakes for your kids on a lazy Saturday morning, cartoons playing in the background.

I shrug. “I try.”

“Give yourself a little more credit, Nev,” she says. “You’re a single parent. And you’re doing a hell of a lot better job than I ever did.”

“Our situations are a little different.”

“All things considered,” she says, “anyone else would be falling apart after what you went through, but you’re trudging ahead. I’m so proud of you.”

Exhaling, I take a seat beside Essie, who’s trying to pick up pieces of mashed banana from the tray of her high chair.

“I’m meeting up with a contractor this morning at the house,” I say. “Think you can watch the girls for a couple of hours?”

“Of course.”

“Figured I’d take them to Saint Louis after that. Maybe see the aquarium and the children’s museum, just us.”

Mom smiles. “They’d love that.”

Watching my youngest squish fruit between her fingers, I smile. I’m looking forward to a daddy-daughters day.

“How was last night?” Mom asks.

I glance across the table. “You want the truth?”

“Always.”

“It was a small-town bar on a small-town Friday night,” I say. “Cheap beer, blue-collar types, a handful of drunks, and a bunch of girls with bleach blonde hair, tight jeans, and cowgirl boots.”

Mom shrugs, like she doesn’t see the problem. But she’s used to this slower-paced, middle America kind of life. She’s grown up here her whole life. Being away for ten years, I’ve grown out of this.

Living on the East Coast and traveling all over the country, I loved waking up each morning to something new. I loved walking to the coffee shop at the corner and never running into the same person twice.

“Honestly, I’m still not sure moving back here was the right decision,” I say. “On paper, it is. You’re here. Hunter and Eden are here. And I know I need you guys. But it just doesn’t feel right yet.”

“Nev, you already bought a house. Whether or not it feels right, you’ve uprooted your life—the girls’ lives. You’re here. You have to try. You have to make the best of it. Besides, if you left, where would you go?”

I shrug. That’s another thing. I’m not sure.

Home was always North Carolina. And Estella. After college, I signed with the Raleigh Warriors and then I got married. There’s nothing left for me back there. And I’ve never lived anywhere else.

“Everything’s new and maybe even a little scary,” Mom says. “But it’s all going to work out. I know it is. And one of these days, everything’s going to make sense. It’s all going to add up. That’s how it always goes in the end.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” I exhale, pinching the bridge of my nose. My head pounds from last night, though I’m not sure if it’s from the alcohol or the Ambien.

“Would Estella have liked Lambs Grove?” Mom asks.

I chuff. Estella loved everything, everyone, and everywhere. “Yeah.”

She’d have especially loved it here with all the tree-lined streets and the salt box houses and the clock tower on Main Street.

I stare over Mom’s shoulder for a second, gazing out the sliding glass doors toward her shady, half acre back yard and recalling a strange dream I had last night about Estella.

I’m not the type to frivolously assign meaning to things, but I can’t shake the image of my late wife dressed in white, smiling and telling me to come closer. Her hands were cupped, outstretched, and when I finally came near, she opened them only to reveal a single white dove.

My nickname for Yardley was Dove.