“That warm, fuzzy feeling in your chest is fickle and clouds your judgment. Makes you indifferent to things that should be red flags. Convinces you that it—and only it—matters when we all know on some rational level that will never be the case. It’s the reason Barnett married Amber even though he was worried about her cosmetics credit card and the student debt she hadn’t been making any payments on.”

She looks at me quizzically. “Who’re Barnett and Amber?”

“They were on this reality TV show on Netflix called Love Is Blind. The experiment was to date people without seeing them in person first. They would hang out in these solitary pods and . . .”

My mother’s brows snap together.

I gesture as if my point isn’t worth our time. “Anyway, a bunch of people were talking about the show at work because it’s been picked up for a second season, so I was curious. Doesn’t matter. You get what I’m saying.”

“Sort of, but as usual, you have it all figured out in your own head.”

Something about her tone makes me think she didn’t mean that as a compliment.

“And if I know you,” she continues, “you’ll regroup and be back on the straight and narrow path in no time. I just wanted to let you know that Harvey and I are hopping in the RV and going on a road trip. A little hiking in the Olympic Peninsula, then a visit to Lake Crescent. We leave tomorrow morning.”

“What does Harvey do again?”

She rolls her eyes, plainly wanting me to register that she’s annoyed by my question. “He’s a retired airline pilot. Has a good head on his shoulders. Treats me well.”

I’ve heard that phrase so often in reference to her boyfriends, all of whom eventually become ex-boyfriends, that I’m starting to wonder if she knows what it actually means to be treated well. All the disappointments, the crying, the willingness to uproot her family for a new guy only to discover he’s just not that into her. She remembers none of it. But I do. And I will not be doomed to repeat her mistakes.

There’s something to be said for being led by pragmatism. Case in point: Ella and I didn’t contort ourselves to fit into each other’s lives; we just slotted into place. And now that we’re no longer together, we can slot the hell back out without much fuss. That’s not Melissa Chapman’s way, though. Never has been, never will be.