She hands me my sandwich and we speak about work. As I eat the lunch she prepared for me, I listen to her and realize it’s not only the decor or wallpaper that hasn’t changed. My mom hasn’t either.
As children, we put our parents on a pedestal. We make them out to be these superheroes in our minds. Don’t get me wrong; my mom has definitely had her superhero moments, having raised me on her own, but I was about seven years old when I started to see the cracks in her facade.
She would lie and say she was happy my dad had left and that she was stronger because of it, but there were nights I heard her crying. The next day, she’d be here, at this table, talking about work and tasking me to do better with my grades. I realized, the harder she worked, the more she was hurting about something on the inside.
I didn’t fully understand it until I was older and had my first heartbreak. His name was Rick. He took my virginity and broke up with me the next day. I sobbed, the sounds coming out of me very similar to the ones I’d heard coming from her door. Just as she held her head high in public, I did too. Poured my heart into taking the SAT and got a near-perfect score.
With the way my mom talks about a new grant she’s working on, the kind that is almost unattainable, I know my father’s card, now sitting in her trash can, has been bothering her all week. And here she is, cutting wood, making lunch, and changing the world.
I never realized she’d be wearing her mask twenty plus years later. To see her still holding up that facade, being strong and saying she’s fine when I can feel it in my bones that she’s not, hurts my heart for her.
Yes, I know the issue here.
Hello, kettle. Meet pot.
I’m not turning into my mother. I am already her.
As I leave my mom’s house, I feel … off. I don’t want to say I’m dejected, but as our afternoon together carried on, I found myself noticing way too many similarities about the two of us, like the way she pulls her hair at the nape of her neck when she’s concentrating or how she hums when she’s cooking. Those little habits are sweet, and I’m proud to be a reflection of her in that way, but the disdain we have toward men and the way we prefer to stay home instead of living life to the fullest have me wondering if I’m going to grow up and be just like my mother—single and alone.
No matter how much I try to deny it, I had fun with Jake last night. It was nice to talk to someone from the opposite sex, to feel that zing you get when someone excites you. It’s been years, and I somehow forgot what a night out like that could do for your mental health, if nothing else. I wrote a ton when I got home, and my mind felt freer this morning than it had in years.
Could Charisse really be on to something?
I’m so lost in the thought that I miss my exit and have to take the scenic route home. As I’m driving through the streets of Chicago, I notice Moreau Flowers. The antique lights over the sign are still lit, so before I even realize what I’m doing, I pull over and exit the car. I cross the street and look up at the wooden sign hanging above the storefront. The letters are in script and show the shop has been in business since 1923.
When I open the large wooden door with a glass floral inlay, I see Jake in his slacks and a button-down with a black apron mostly covering his designer clothes. He puts down the long-stemmed roses he brought from the back and talks to a couple at the counter. I stand behind a display as I watch him.
His lips are pursed as he listens to the woman who has her arm wrapped around the man’s as she stares up at him with a frown.
“I really had my heart set on all white for our wedding.”
The gentleman looks down at her. “Yes, honey, but three hundred dollars for roses that will die is way out of our budget.”
Jake raises a finger as he walks around the counter. “I have an idea. If you want a big centerpiece and you want all white, what do you think of these?” He grabs a handful of hydrangeas from a cooler and walks them back to the centerpiece he’s been creating.
Replacing most of the roses with the hydrangeas, he transforms it into a full and lush floral arrangement that is almost prettier than when it was just roses.
“These still give you that pure feeling you want while also staying within your budget. It also has a classic, old-school style, which is what you originally said you wanted,” Jake says to the woman and then turns to the guy. “And I can do it for two hundred a piece.”
The man’s expression softens while the woman bounces on her toes.
“I love it!” She beams.
That debonair smile of Jake’s is on full display as he takes down their final order, joking with them and laughing as they shake hands.
As the couple leaves, I step away from the display and give a wave.
He looks up at me with a grin. “You don’t have to come in here and hide.”
“You knew I was here?”
“I’m a store owner in an inner city. I always know when someone walks in. Plus, you’re not that stealthy.”
I stick my tongue out at him as I walk up to the wooden counter. Everything in here seems to be original, like it’s a piece of Chicago’s history.
“To what do I owe this surprise?” he asks.
“Luck, I guess. I made a wrong turn and just happened to see your storefront.”
“Lady Luck, huh?” His brows rise as he smiles and walks across the room to a bucket that holds a beautiful pink flower, plucking it from the water and handing it to me. “A peony. They’re symbolic of both good luck and good fortune.”
I want to roll my eyes at him, but the act is so sweet that I actually grin.
“Jake, can you come help me?” I hear a woman call from the back.
“Coming,” he says as he walks through a door behind the counter.
A few moments later, Jake and a woman enter through the same door, both carrying large flower bouquets that are full of vibrant colors of magenta, purples, blues, and yellows.
“These are amazing,” I gush at the floral art.
“Thank you.” She smiles as she places hers on the counter. “Jake designed them.”
I look up at him and his proud stature. “Impressive.”
“I hope the client likes them too. They were a big project,” he says.
The woman agrees with a nod. “The driver will be here soon to deliver them to the museum. There’s a charity ball tonight. I have twenty more in the back.”
“Wow. Can I lend a hand?” I ask, which makes her turn to me in surprise at my offer.
“Mother,” Jake says, “I’d like for you to meet my neighbor, Lacey.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I love meeting Jake’s friends.” She walks around with open arms. “I’m Bobbi.”
Even though it startles me, I welcome the embrace from a woman who smells like lavender.
One of her arms is still around me as she turns to Jake. “Is this the girl who lives next door? The romance author?”
He nods his head as I tilt mine to him.
Bobbi looks at me, excited. “I could use your help. We can’t get this one to settle down for anything. He has girls come through here all the time, batting their lashes, and not one has piqued his interest.”
“I’m holding out for the right woman,” he states, and his mother pats his cheek.