“Did I ever tell you how I met your dad?” she asked, forcing a small smile. I shook my head. “I almost ran him over with my car. I was pulling out of a parking space and I nearly bumped into him. He jumped out of the way and his bag of groceries went flying. Oranges rolling down the road, the milk bottles smashed, eggs broken. I got such a fright. I jumped out and started apologizing and asked if there was anything I could do to help, and you know what he said?” She looked at me and I shook my head. “He said I could take him to dinner because he didn’t have anything to eat now.” She gave a little laugh, as if the memory really was funny. As if the memory still meant something to her. “I thought we were going to grow old together.” Her voice sounded strained and tired, and I realized that she’d never spoken to me like this before.

“But that’s not your problem, though. I’m the adult. I shouldn’t have allowed my feelings to affect you and Zac so much. But I did. I failed you guys.” She finally looked up at me, her eyes full of tears, and my heart broke for her.

“Mom.” I stepped forward. “I’m sorry.” I didn’t really know what I was saying sorry for—for the divorce, for Dad, for painting over her billboard, for her pain, for my pain, for Zac’s autism . . . but I felt sorry. I felt so damn bloody sorry for all that we’d gone through these past four years.

A tear rolled down my cheek now as the realization hit me in the guts. I shook my head. “I can’t go to Paris, Mom. Who’s going to take care of Zac?”

“But haven’t you always wanted to go to the best art school in the world? Isn’t that your dream?”

“It is, but . . .”

“I’ll take care of Zac. I’m his mother and that’s my job. I’ve let you do it for far too long, too much responsibility has fallen on you.”

“I can’t leave him.” Another tear joined the other, rolling down my cheek, carving a cool, wet line into it.