She took her free hand and brought it to my chin, lifting my face until our eyes met.
“Francesca Marie Doyle”—her voice was firm—“I’ve spent the last thirty years being in awe of you.”
I sniffled and wiped my nose on my sleeve, and gave her a confused look.
“Occasionally, intimidated too,” she said as she moved her hand to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
Surely, I thought, she was joking. But her face was completely serious.
“Nothing about me is intimidating,” I said, chest heaving.
“Nothing about you is intimidating,” she said back to me, chuckling. “Fran, you’ve known exactly who you were since the day you popped out of me. You worked jobs in high school so you could pay for your own art classes, and then when you got into NYU you were determined to go, even though everyone, including me, told you it’d be easier just to go to UConn and live at home. You moved to New York City at eighteen, and you’ve never looked back. You chose a career you were passionate about, and you’ve made it work. You’ve built a life for yourself—one you love—and you know exactly who you are. That’s something most of us can’t say. So, yeah, sometimes you are intimidating, in the best way possible. And, god, do I love it. I am so proud of you.”
I took in a deep breath, and let it out through my mouth, steadying myself. “But you’re always so worried about me.”
“I worry about if you’re happy. I worry that you’re being too hard on yourself. I worry that you’re not getting enough sleep.”
I let out a small laugh at this.
“But I never worry about you, Franny, not really. If anything, I worry about anyone who tries to stand in your way. I know I’m just your mom, but you’ve always seemed unstoppable to me. The day you stop doing exactly what you want with your life, that’s when I’ll worry. Because that would be a failure. Not yours, but mine, as your mom.”
“It’s hard for me to shake this feeling that I just want to make you proud,” I said. “And if I don’t, I’ve messed up.” I’d never been this honest with her before, and it felt amazing and terrifying, all at once. I yanked down the sleeves of my sweatshirt, and wiped my eyes with them.
“Franny, the only person who you need to make proud is yourself. Don’t worry about me. I’ll always be proud of you, no matter what.”
Her words kicked the tears back into high gear. It was impossible to feel proud of myself when I’d hurt Hayes and screwed everything up between us.
“I lied about having a migraine, that morning. With the baby shower. I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, honey, it’s okay. I never said thank you for all you did to help me with that.” She wove her fingers through mine, placed her other hand on top of my own.
“And I lied because of a guy,” I said, finally getting the words out, my voice hoarse from crying. “The one from the subway.”
“Hayes Montgomery the Third?” she asked, and I was so taken aback at her using his full name that I laughed.
“You know his full name?” I said, still shocked at having heard it come out of her mouth.
“I set up a Google Alert for him.” She said it like it was obvious. “I have one for you too.”
I shook my head at this. What a mom move.
“I screwed it all up.” I let out a weary sigh, and she ran her hand through my hair, so gently, like she did when I was small. “I panicked about, well, everything—your heart attack, feeling like I was failing at getting work, how much I liked him. I said stuff to him that wasn’t especially nice. I know you said I should be proud of myself, but I’m not proud of how I treated him.”
“Well, what would make you proud, then?” she asked, still softly rubbing my head.
I thought for a moment. “Apologizing,” I said. “I owe him one.”
“Well, I think that’s a great plan.” She planted a kiss on my forehead, still holding me close.
“I really, really like him, Mom,” I said. I could feel the heavy weight of longing for him in my bones. It hadn’t left me. Even though our relationship had ended, my feelings hadn’t.
“I know, honey,” she whispered gently in my ear. “I know. I know.”
*
Later that night, as I washed dishes, I heard a muffled conversation coming from the living room. Then Jim called, “Franny-Bananny!” I shuffled in, with the rubber dish gloves still on, plopping down in his raggedy old armchair.