“She turned it down because of me?”
Mimi shakes her head. “Your mother had already decided before she found out about you. She realized that what she really wanted wasn’t success, she wanted contentment. She didn’t want to find her meaning in the art world, based on whether people approved of her work. She wanted connection and community. You know—” Mimi gestures to the plant in front of her, the root ball wrapped tightly around the compacted dirt. “—roots.”
Mom had a whole other life before me?I let that sink in, trying to piece together this version of my mother with the one I knew. She never told me about the gallery offer or that her art was anything more than a weekend hobby. Maybe that’s because it hadn’t mattered anymore.
The only stories I’d heard were how she and Dad met, and how he left when I was three because he decided he didn’t want to be married or have a family. He chose freedom; she chose roots. They couldn’t have been more different, but Mom never regretted her choice.
After that, Mom got her insurance job and we moved away for a while. We only came back because of the situation with Mom’s client, but she was relieved to be home. Maple Falls was always where she belonged.
“How did she know she was making the right choice?”
“She didn’t,” Mimi says, nibbling at her cupcake. “No one ever does. We make the best decisions we can in the moment, learning to find our happiness inside the life we’ve already chosen.” She stops and then pats my hand. “But that’s not why you came today, is it? You don’t want to listen to an old woman ramble about the past.”
“No, I actually do.” She’s offering a glimpse into the choices my mother never talked about—the things that mattered, and ultimately, shaped her life.
“Why did you text me so late last night?” Mimi asks.
“Well, I have an opportunity to rent a space in Seattle for a cupcake shop. It’s the perfect spot.”
“And yet you’re sitting in an old woman’s garden instead of calling the realtor?” Mimi observes with a raised eyebrow.
“There are…” I pause, not wanting to go into details. “Complications.”
“Tall, handsome complications?” She winks at me.
“Yes. That, and…money. I could apply for the town grant but?—”
“It would keep you here for two years,” she finishes. “Emmy told me.” She wipes her fingers on a small napkin after she polishes off the cupcake. “Not a small commitment. You’re hesitating over that?”
“If you call hesitating not finishing the application, then yes,” I admit.
Mimi nods thoughtfully. “Ah, I see. And did it have something to do with the man fixing up my home?”
I nod. “Lucian showed up right after Nate stopped by. Nate wanted to get back together again, and it brought up so many painful things. Then Lucian told me…”
Mimi waits patiently, her weathered hands folded, like she has all the time in the world.
“He told me he just knew I was the one,” I say. “Then he left.”
“You mean, he showed you the respect you deserve, confessed his feelings, and left you free to decide if you want the same?” Mimi says it so matter-of-fact, I’m caught off guard.
“When you put it like that…yes. But why does being given a choice feel scarier than having none?”
“Because real love takes trust,” Mimi says, going back to her plant and filling in the dirt. “When someone actually respects your mind, body, and heart, you realize that’s what love should be. It’s not about control; it’s about growing alongside someone, letting them be who they really are. Sometimes, that means trusting them enough to grow with them.”
“But I don’t get it. Lucian actually wants me to be happy, even if that means losing me to Seattle. Who does that? Whosays, ‘I love you,’ and then gives you permission to break his heart?”
Mimi picks up her trowel and scoops more soil into the planter. “Sounds quite different from Nate.”
“Everything about Lucian is different from Nate,” I say, watching her work. “He’s gentle and thoughtful. Nothing like the typical hockey-player stereotype.”
“You know what I always say—you can’t judge a cupcake by its frosting,” Mimi says. “Some look perfect on the outside but taste like cardboard. Others might be a little rough around the edges, but they’re exactly what you need.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out the wooden cupcake figurine. “He even carved this for me as a reminder of Mom.”
Mimi smiles, reaching into her jacket pocket, taking out a similar wood carving—a perfect miniature of a home, intricate enough that I recognize it instantly.
“It’s your house,” I say.
