Since I’m on the fence about attending any sort of church regularly, I’ve started joining Betty’s card games every Tuesday afternoon so I can see her. Let me tell you, these ladies don’t mess around with their Uno. I know. I was surprised, too. I always figured they played bridge in retirement homes. Or, at the very least, euchre. But Betty explained that the brightly colored cards were easier to follow and kept them sharp. After I am soundly trounced by Mabel, an eighty-nine-year-old Southern belle with better lipstick game than I have, Betty invites me to have tea in her apartment. I confess this is why I come. I think it’s why she invites me, too. Betty is easy. Sweet and hilarious and very quick. Or perhaps I’m just an open book. She likes to tell me my dad wore his emotions all over his face, too … which makes me feel a little better.

Well, actually. A lot better. I didn’t come to Marquette to learn about Andrew. I told myself I wasn’t really interested. But, somehow, through Betty’s stories, I’ve become curious about this man who was barely older than I am now when he left this earth.

“He had a type,” Betty says, sipping her Darjeeling and smirking. “We used to tease him because he was such a sucker for petite, dark-haired beauties.”

I grin around my peanut butter cookie. After I swallow, I say, “That fits. My mom was a tiny thing with long black hair to her waist back then. I’ve seen pictures. She probably knocked him on his butt when he first saw her.”

While a lot of things about my parents still bother me, I’m starting to feel like I can relate to them a little after falling for Micah.

“Yes. I imagine he would have been instantly smitten.”

“Would have to have been, Miss Betty. They barely had more than a day or two together.”

“Isn’t that something?” She sighs. “It’s all very romantic, honestly. A whirlwind romance.” She laughs at my expression of disgust. “You don’t agree?”

“Not really. Maybe. It’s hard to imagine. My mom is the least romantic person I’ve ever met. She’s so … so…” I search for the word.

“Practical?”

“Strict,” I finish. “Composed. Legalistic.”

“Well, I imagine so. Think of it, Meg. You follow your heart for the first time in your life and end up alone with a child. Surely, she wasn’t always like that. Had she been, you might not be here eating all my cookies.” Her tone is mild, even as she passes me another two cookies. These have M&M’s added.

“You’re holding out on me, Miss Betty,” I accuse her.

Her eyes twinkle, and she laughs, exposing her fillings. “Go on with you. I wanted to make sure I had enough to send home with you to share with your uncle.”