Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Maybe it’s hormones.
Or grief.
Probably a combination of both.
“Oh my God, Rina!” She pulls me into her arms and holds me tight. I squeeze my eyes shut and just breathe her in. Sandalwood and the faintest trace of irises. It’s a scent I’ve known my entire life. Mom has never been overly demonstrative. She’s exactly what you’d expect from a tenured professor at the University of Chicago to be.
Polished, methodical, and entirely contained.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out.
“Don’t be silly.” She ushers me inside, one arm wrapped around my shoulders.
In the living room, I notice one of her friends on the couch. It’s Maryanne, another professor I vaguely recall from faculty events. I freeze mid-step, heat rushing to my face. I haven’t cried in front of anyone but Oliver in years, and the realization makes me flush harder.
“I didn’t realize you had company.”
Mom gestures toward her friend. “We were just finishing dinner.”
It never occurred to me that my mom might have plans—an actual social life beyond lectures and department meetings. When we talk on the phone, she only ever mentions grading, the grants she’s applying for, or the house projects that need attention.
Never dinners or friends.
Maryanne rises gracefully, offering a small, sympathetic smile. “It’s fine. Dinner was lovely. Next time, we’ll do it at my house.”
While Mom walks her to the door, my gaze drifts to the dining table. There’s a bottle of red wine, two half-filled glasses, and a pair of candles flickering low between them. The scene is warm and intimate. So unlike the version of my mother I’ve always known.
When she returns, I rush to apologize again. “I didn’t mean to interrupt—”
“It’s fine,” she says, her tone leaving no room for argument. She gestures toward the couch. “Sit. I’ll make some tea.”
A few minutes later, I’m curled up beneath the soft glow of a lamp, a steaming mug of chamomile warming my palms. The scent of vanilla candles mingles with the tea, calming the raw edges of my nerves.
For the first time all day, the tension I’ve been carrying finally loosens.
Mom settles beside me, one leg tucked neatly beneath her. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
Oxygen leaks from my lungs in a slow, shaky exhale. I’ve barely told her anything about Oliver. The closest I’ve come was a passing there’s a guy, but it’s nothing serious. Even saying that had felt like too much.
When I stay silent, her brows lift in a knowing look she’s mastered after years of watching students fumble through half-truths. “You didn’t come all the way over here and burst into tears because nothing is going on.”
I chew my lower lip, trying to organize my thoughts, but everything feels jumbled. Words scatter before I can catch them. Eventually, I just blurt it out. “I’m pregnant.”
She blinks once. Then again. “You’re… pregnant?”
I nod. “His name is Oliver. He’s a hockey player, and he wants to marry me.”
“Oh my.”
A gurgle of laughter slips free. “Yeah.”
She studies me as the silence stretches between us, until it feels like it might snap. “And how do you feel about all this?”
“Overwhelmed,” I admit. “Confused. Maybe a little terrified.”
Her tone gentles as the lines around her mouth ease. “I wish you’d told me sooner. We talk every week, and you never mentioned him.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “I know. It’s just…” The rest disintegrates before I can force it out. I have no idea how to even begin explaining Oliver. How it started, how fast it all escalated, or how I barely recognize my own life anymore.
Her mouth curves faintly. “I suppose I’m not the easiest person to open up to.”
My shoulders sag in quiet agreement. Even though she’s right, I can’t bring myself to say it out loud.
“Especially where men and relationships are concerned,” she tacks on.
I manage a slight smile. “I don’t blame you for being cautious.”
“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘bitter,’” she says with a wry twist of her lips that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Maybe.”
For a long moment, she looks away, her gaze unfocused. Almost as if she sees something I can’t.
With a deep inhale, she turns back to me, her expression gentler, somehow steadier. “Rina, there’s something I need to tell you.”
Her sudden candidness surprises me.
My mother has never been one for confessions.
“In hindsight,” she begins carefully, “your father and I never really fit. I’d thought I was doing what was expected by getting married, having a child, living the life my parents wanted for me.” A small, sad smile tugs at her lips. “But it was never right.”
Confusion ripples through me. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
She reaches across the couch, her hand wrapping around mine. “Maryanne and I are more than friends. We’ve been together for a while now.”
I falter. “You… and Maryanne?”
She nods. “And for the first time in my life, I feel like myself. The person I was always meant to be. I spent years trying to fit into a version of happiness that was never mine. Always doing what I thought I should, never what I wanted. Once I stopped pretending, everything got lighter. Easier. And I realized how much of that fear—the need to protect myself, to control everything—I passed on to you.”