“It’s hardly pestering, Brodie. Your mom should’ve come home.”

“You know those regrets that hit you while you’re taking a shower? Slam you in the middle of the night and wake you up so hard there’s no going back to sleep? That’s one of mine. The way I kept after her. I got so damn worked up.” He could remember it clearly, harassing her on the phone.

But you said you’re coming.

When?

Are you coming for my birthday?

That one was the worst. With each month that went by, each fresh batch of excuses given, he’d grown more anxious. Each call became more aggressive, more insistent. And, then, with his birthday approaching, she’d sworn she would come. He’d believed her.

“When did you give up on her?”

“My eleventh birthday. I wore her down until she promised she’d come. My dad even showed me her airline ticket on his laptop.” She’s coming, son. And she’s got a big surprise for you. “Like an asshole, I got all geared up for it. Cleaned my room, made sure Marcella had the right kind of food in the fridge. Made my dad promise not to do the things that made my mom crazy.”

“Like what?” she said with a soft smile.

“Like hiding out in his office. I told him he couldn’t work while she was home. She always complained that he looked like Sasquatch, so I made him shave and laid out the clothes he could wear while she was in town. And he did it. Went along with everything. I had everything set up just how she’d like it.”

“And she didn’t come.” Her voice carried the weight of disgust. “Your mother sucks.”

“From the mouths of princesses…”

She looked at him thoughtfully. “You know, I had it all wrong.”

“You had what wrong?”

“You. I thought you didn’t follow through because you’d had such enormous expectations for the Olympics, but it’s not that.”

“You still trying to figure me out?”

This time she didn’t smile. She grasped his hand. “It was your mom. You put yourself out there—begged her to love you, to be the mom you guys deserved—and she let you down.”

Her indignation poured like water on the dry, cracked patch of memories he’d long ago abandoned. He didn’t want to fertilize the old wounds, so he tried to pull his hand away.

But she wouldn’t let go. “You were a pure, innocent little boy, filled with love and kindness…and, as you Americans like to say, piss and vinegar.” She smiled. “And your mom crushed your spirit.”

No. No one had that much control over him. “I think I turned out okay.”