Dianne’s birthday. The glass in my hand shook suddenly. “That’s great,” I choked out. No one noticed my reaction; they were all focused on Abby and Doug. I leaned back into the couch and closed my eyes against the emotions that were called up by that date. I suddenly wanted a drink.

I stood and excused myself, then headed for the front porch. Snow was falling, and the air was still. I felt like I’d been running; my heart was pounding and my breath hard to catch. The sharpness of the air slowed me down, though, and I breathed deeply and stuffed my hands into my pockets, watching the snow fall silently onto the streets where it melted on the cement.

I heard the door open behind me; I didn’t have to look to know it was Mom. She slipped her arm around my waist. “Dianne?”

I nodded. “June seventh is her birthday.”

She nodded silently, both of us watching the Galverstons decorate their tree in the bay window across the street. “You didn’t talk about her much when you two were together. I didn’t know how serious it was until after she died; the magazines said more about your relationship than you had.” There was only the slightest hint of hurt in her voice; I was instantly guilty.

“Yeah, we were sort of serious, but I knew you wouldn’t have approved, us living together and everything. And when she got sick, I didn’t know what to do with it, and we couldn’t really tell anyone, so secrecy just became the norm.”

She shrugged under my arm, which I’d draped over her shoulder. “I know Los Angeles isn’t Reily, but don’t underestimate us, honey. It’s your life to live; you never seemed that worried about my approval before you dashed west to do your thing, so why start now?” We both chuckled, and she gave me a squeeze. “But I understand the secrecy thing. May not like it, but I do understand.”

I could feel the bubble of anger and guilt and sorrow making its way out of its hiding place and into my throat. “It was so hard, Mom. Watching her die like that—even before the accident. Watching her just waste away. And then the crash … ” I still shuddered at the memory; therapy can only do so much. “I may not have loved her enough to marry her, but I loved her enough to have been better for her, and wasn’t.

“You won’t get very far beating yourself up, Son. And it’s not forward motion. You’re just spinning your wheels.”