It wasn’t that the moms wanted to control their decisions, Silas knew. It was that they wanted to make sure their kids were making those decisions with all of the information. Taylor’s switch to business had been the right call, and the moms were happy to support her. Nirina’s fiancé-turned-husband had held up to the mom tag team but had also agreed that running off and getting married fresh out of college after knowing each other for a grand total of four months wasn’t the best foundation. The moms had helped the young couple find their first apartment and walked Niri through the conflicts that arose during the next two years.

The alcohol was a new addition and a nice touch.

Blaire returned with three freshly washed glasses and zero comments on the state of his kitchen.

Mama B poured, and Blaire handed him a glass. “Go ahead,” she said.

These conversations always began with an uninterrupted monologue from the kid about their take on the situation. Usually an enthusiastic defense of whatever stupid choice they’d made. Once the kid finished and was feeling confident in their self-righteousness, the moms gently and systematically destroyed them.

“Can we just skip to the part where you tell me that I was wrong?” he asked, taking a swallow of bourbon.

“There are no shortcuts in life that get you to where you want to be,” Blaire reminded him.

Silas rested his head against the chair and sighed. They wouldn’t leave until he gave them what they wanted. His tattered, bruised heart on a platter.

“Fine.” He sighed and polished off the rest of his drink. He held out the empty glass, and as Blaire poured, he began.

“And then she insisted that if I came with her, I’d just end up resenting her for ripping out my roots or some other landscaping metaphor.” Silas was on his third bourbon on an empty stomach, and things were getting a little blurry.

Not blurry enough that he missed the look his moms exchanged.

“Okay. Let me have it. Tell me how I’m the one who screwed up.” He was feeling pretty confident that most of the blame could be laid at Maggie’s work boots.

“Silas, how does Maggie make decisions?” Blaire asked. She was keeping up with him on the bourbon count. Mama B had switched to tea halfway through his explanation.

“She overthinks things to death. Does her research. Compares possibilities. Makes lists.”

“Smart,” Mama B commented.

“Data obsessed,” Silas said.

“Do you feel good about the data you provided her?” Blaire asked.

“I didn’t provide data. That’s not how I decide things. I go with my gut.”

“So you gave her a romantic ultimatum, and then you were surprised when she didn’t jump into your arms?” Mama B clarified, one hand in her hair.

He could smell a setup.