“We didn’t work out.” It’s an obvious answer, but it spills out. “Ashe couldn’t handle hard times well.”

“Huh, better you found that out before you walked down the aisle.” She unsheathes her expensive tools, arranging her combs and scissors on the table. “What have I always said? Men can’t be trusted. They never do what they say they’ll do.”

“That’s not always true,” I say gently. “Grady’s not like that. If you stick around, you’ll see.”

Old Mom would’ve jumped into a whirlwind defense of her long-held beliefs about men, highlighting proof, particularly centered around my deadbeat father. I barely remember him. As a teenager, I wanted to argue against her, to ask why, then, did we know so many happy couples in Seagrove, men who loved their wives and stayed. Why did that rule seem to apply only to her? And why did she keep finding men if she truly believed it?

But often, I didn’t have the energy to argue, not that she would’ve heard me. When Mom got ideas in her head, she rarely, if ever, shifted them. So, I kept quiet, managing our household peace like it was my job—school, chores, and keeping Mom calm.

She moves to the front of the chair, eyeing me. “Always so pretty, Marnie. You’ve only gotten prettier, you know?”

A weak smile pushes out, though it makes me feel awkward. “Thanks.”

She kneels before me, straightening the cape and resting her hands on my knees. “I’m so sorry, Marnie. I should’ve said it then, that night. But I was so ashamed. I knew I didn’t deserve your forgiveness, even if you gave it to me. Finding out about the play and that you couldn’t tell me about it—which I understand now, but I couldn’t take it then. I induced a manic episode with pills and booze, creating the perfect storm that rained all over you. You didn’t deserve what I put you through… not that night. Not all the years before. It was unfair, you managing my condition while I just went wherever it took me. God—I’m sorry. I never gave you a chance to be a kid.”

She shuts her eyes to the tears springing in them. Mom cries?

“I never should’ve left,” she goes on, “Never should’ve run from you and what I caused. I never wanted to be without you. I knew you’d be okay—you were always okay. I also knew that I needed to be okay without you⁠—”

I bolt from my seat, the chair scraping out from under me. “You’re my mother. How could you ever think I’d be okay without you? I was fifteen.”

Mom steps back, nodding as tears spit from her eyes. “You’re right.”