I felt a little bad about letting my dad take Carson off without me. Not nearly as nervous as I was about not being able to monitor Carson’s every word, but he’d be fine. Probably. I just didn’t see a way around it.

Who knew? Maybe they wouldn’t even do much talking. Maybe they’d just sniff and growl at each other a little, silently determining dominance, like males of every other species did.

Carson was as alpha as they came, but he’d accept an older alpha. That was a thing, right? An older alpha? I wished I were more of a dog person. And understood men better.

With them gone for at least a couple hours, I had a chance to talk to my mom alone. I was worried about her. She looked older, more tired, more… not the woman I remembered. Her smile was still there, like always, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Looked more like the exhausted smile she wore after a full day of serving cake and coffee and listening to church parishioners whine about their lives.

I found her reading in the living room and sat right next to her on the couch. She set down her book and wiped a lock of hair off my forehead.

“You need a trim.”

“Stop.” I brushed her hand away. “If I want bangs that fall into my eyes, I can have bangs that fall into my eyes.” I didn’t though. She was totally right—I needed a trim. “I’m not a little girl anymore, Mom.”

“Don’t I know it.” She sighed. “So this boy makes you happy?”

“Yes, but…” That wasn’t what I wanted to talk to her about.

She turned toward me and took my hand in hers. “But what, honey? You can tell me. Something about Carson?”

Great. Now she was worried about me. “No. Carson’s amazing. He is. I have nothing to complain about.”

She smiled. “I can’t tell you how happy hearing that makes me, Laney. It really does.”

Why had I ever worried about my parents hating him? I couldn’t believe I’d waited this long to have them meet. Crap, when I thought of all the time I wasted worrying about it…

“He’s not the kind of man I thought you’d end up with, of course. Carson is so much less…” When her brow came together as she searched for a word, all the guilt I’d felt for waiting so long suddenly seemed like the best use of time ever. What horrible word was she going to say?

“Boring.”

Wait. What? “Did you just say you expected me to end up with someone boring?”

She stared at me for a moment. “If Carson makes you happy, that’s all that matters.”

“I guess so,” I said warily, wondering if I wanted to know why she thought I’d choose to be with someone boring. Then I remembered I had been with someone boring. A few someones boring, actually. Every jackass before Carson.

“You’re right—he’s definitely not boring. He’s funny and sweet and supportive of what I want to do. Not to mention that he puts up with me, which, as you know, isn’t always easy.”

“You forgot to mention he’s not too bad to look at.”

“Mom! Gross!” I said, laughing with her. “Yeah, he’s not too bad to look at either. Honestly, I didn’t even know men could be so great—except Dad, of course, but you know…”

Her smile faded. “Yes, I know.”

“Mom?” I started, not knowing what I was going to say next. “I’m glad the men are out because I wanted to talk to you privately.”

“Uh-oh. If it’s not Carson…”

I shook my head again. “I wanted to talk to you… about you.”

“Me?”

The amount of surprise encompassed in that one word felt like a lifetime of guilt slamming down on me.

My mom was incredible—giving, kind, supportive, helpful, and a great listener. Sadly, all of that meant I could almost guarantee no one had ever wondered how she was feeling—including her. She was a rock, there for anyone and everyone who needed her. But who’d been there for her? Not me, that’s for sure.

“How are you? Really?”

“I’m…” She paused for a breath. “I’m busy. We started a new support group at the church for women and mothers, and it’s going wonderfully. Some of their stories are difficult to hear, but it’s important for them to have a safe place to talk.” She continued, telling me a few horror stories of abuse or neglect, along with a few happier ones like women finding jobs that paid enough to support their kids.

And while I could tell my mom was proud of them and the hard work they were doing to reach their goals, I wondered if she’d ever shared her own story with the women. Sadder still—in a purely narcissistic way, mind you—was the jealousy I felt flare up at the idea she might’ve shared something with them that she’d never shared with me.

She was amazing, and brilliant, and had it all together, and nothing could ever change how much I loved her. But realistically, how much time had I ever spent actually getting to know her?

“That’s awesome, Mom. I’m sure they really appreciate it. But how are you besides busy?”

She looked at me silently for a minute, maybe weighing how honest she could be.

“Are you happy?” I prompted.

She took a deep breath. “I’m always happy to be of service to others.”

I cringed. “Geez, Mom. I know that. And it’s great. But I want to know if you are happy when you’re not doing things for other people. When you’re here with Dad or by yourself.”

“I don’t know.” Three of the most common words in the English language that, most of the time, held no meaning. But when she said them, they were full of fear, confusion, and regret. “I don’t know anymore, Laney.”

I waited for her to continue.

It took her a while, but eventually, she did. “I have so much—it feels wrong to want more.” She straightened out the bottom edge of my t-shirt until I brushed her hand away.

“That’s not wrong, Mom. That’s normal. We all deserve to be happy. You don’t think less of those women because they want that for themselves, do you?”

She shook her head. “Of course, not.”

She must have been a little selfish at some point. All young people were. I just didn’t know how to help her think that way again.

I glanced around the room, hoping something would trigger a good idea. But it was all the same crap that—

Crap.

I’d almost kicked Carson out on the street this morning because he’d come very close to suggesting the paintings I’d done were crap. Fortunately for him, he’d stopped talking at exactly the right moment.

My mom had always been the painter in the family, but the stuff hanging on the walls now wasn’t hers. I couldn’t remember a time growing up when she wasn’t painting or sculpting something. Taking down one painting and putting another up, or reorganizing a space so there’d be room for her latest sculpture.

Looking back, I guess she’d stopped while I was a teenager, but I’d been too selfish and preoccupied to really care. She’d been my biggest supporter, had taught me about form and perspective, had signed me up for my first wood carving course, and bought me my first set of chisels.

And now, the artwork on the walls was somebody else’s, and picture frames had replaced the carved figures that used to take up every horizontal surface.

“Where’s all of your artwork, Mom?”

She had taught me how to love art as much as she taught me how to love myself and my family. I knew how impossible it would be for me to stop creating it, and it couldn’t have been much different for her.

“It was taking up too much room, and I like having pictures of our family where I can see them all the time. They’re good memories.”

I nodded. Because I agreed, and also because I understood. She missed me. She missed the family we used to be, the people we used to be.

“Darn it.” She patted my leg and stood up before I could stop her. “I need to go shopping before the boys get back with the catch of the day.” She grabbed her bag, keys, and sunglasses and headed through the door.

“Mom!” I called after her. “Can we talk more?”

“Later? Of course we can.”

Of course we could. But would we?