But then the moment seemed to pass from her, and her eyes sparkled instead of burned, and she took the rose and laughed. The clown did a backflip, and the wagon unveiled a troupe of musicians who began bashing and strumming away. And we all danced together, Mom even got me to dance, and we laughed and spun and hollered. I gripped Mom’s rose in my teeth and she twirled me. I couldn’t remember a time since Pop left that was so much fun.

When we left the carnival, it was nearing dusklight. I was about as happy as I’d ever felt in my whole life. I mean, I was practically skipping, dancing around Mom, and neither of us could go five seconds without laughing.

Then I had to go and screw it all up. I had to open my durn stupid mouth.

I looked up at my mom, her face so beaming and glad and full of joy it might have been the moon itself.

I said, “Man, Pop would have really loved that, wouldn’t he?”

The light went quick out of her face, same as a candle being snuffed out.

Mom stopped in her tracks and hung her head a minute. I saw her neck flinch, and her right hand make a fist, like she was holding something in, like she was doing everything she could not to rear back and scream.

When she finally spoke, it was in a whisper.

“There are only so many stories that get told,” she said.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Are you talking about that song the clown sang?”

“It’s like in Parsnit,” said Mom. “You know how the best stories are all about the Rambling Duke, or the Mountebank, or any old adventurer who takes off down the Wayward River?”

“Yeah,” I said. “So?”

“There are other stories, Buddy,” she said. “Of folks who maybe aren’t quite so free, who can’t just pack up and run after any adventure that comes their way. Their stories might not seem as exciting, and they might take place somewhere regular and boring. But that doesn’t mean these folks haven’t sacrificed and loved and lost and fought battles just as hard as someone out on the road. It doesn’t make their stories any less powerful, important, or real. It doesn’t make their stories mean any less.”

“I don’t get it,” I said. “How can the story about someone who doesn’t go on an adventure be as interesting as a story about someone who does?”

Mom smiled at me, but it was a sad smile, and all the sparkle was gone out from her eyes.

“Come on home now,” she said. “We got an early morning tomorrow.”

And we walked the rest of the way in silence.

It was only now, thinking back to the way my mom’s eyes flashed and burned for a moment, that I realized all she had given up for me. That maybe she didn’t want a quiet home life, that maybe her heart longed for wildness, for adventure. I mean, why else would she have taken up with a guy like Pop in the first place? And yet all she got out of the deal was to be stuck at home, with me.