“I think some women will love your empowerment weekends, but I also think some women just want to get away from their kids and lives for a weekend,” he says. “You could have in-room massages, wine tastings, maybe a fashion show with a local shop.

“And a lot of people love winter, too, Mom,” he continues. “We could theme it Winter at The Summer Cottage and have cross-country ski weekends with hot cider and hot chocolate, holiday shopping and decorating, romantic Valentine’s getaways... Don’t most of the shop owners in town say you thrive in the summer but off-season is what keeps you alive?”

My mouth drops as I stare at my son.

When did he become so grown up? When did he become so savvy? When did he become a man?

“Evan! I love this!” I say.

And then he blows his bangs from his eyes and ducks his head, and the confident man I just saw becomes the little boy I know.

“Thanks,” he says, his cheeks flushing.

“My ideas aren’t so exciting. More along the lines of manual labor,” I say, giving Evan an “I’m sorry” expression. “I need help with a lot of the outdoor maintenance that I really didn’t budget for, like mowing, weeding, trimming trees, keeping the steps and patio clear of moss, wiping down chairs in the morning, hauling beach chairs, towels and picnic baskets down for guests...”

“So, I’m the pack mule,” he says.

Esme comes out carrying two huge rugs. She walks into the yard, tosses the rugs onto the grass and then lifts them up one at a time, giving them giant shakes. Dust motes fill the shafts of light, scattering this way and that like pollen.

She turns to us and says, “Just like mi madre,” before heading back inside with the rugs.

Evan looks at me, his eyes filled with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to imply manual labor was beneath me,” he says. “I didn’t mean that I was too good for it.”

I reach out and take my son’s hand in my own. “I know, sweetheart,” I say. “I know.”

I begin to tie the spent stems I’ve laid on the patio table into a chain, just like I did when I was a girl.

“I couldn’t find one person who wanted to work here and was actually capable of doing the job until a woman at a local orchard recommended Esme,” I say. “Her husband picks fruit all summer, and then they return to Mexico. Their children are always on the move. And do you know what she told me when I interviewed her? ‘I want my children to have a better life than me.’”

Without warning, my eyes well with tears.

“That’s all any parent wants,” I say. “And people judge her and her family every day, but she never complains. She shows up, works hard and helps make this inn run smoothly.”