Page 39 of One Wild Chance

I watched Jaxon with the kids at the farmers market today. He was so patient and attentive with them. He’d be good at this. But he’s also too proud to coach a youth league, especially in this town.

I swipe to the next photo of my wildflower field in full bloom.

“Oh,” she says, leaning in to get a closer look. “That’s pretty. Is that your farm?”

“Yep. It’s on Lucky Chance Ranch.”

“Lucky Chance,” she repeats slowly. “I think I know that name.”

“You might. The Chance family has four boys. John and Miriam let me use a few acres to grow flowers.”

“One played hockey.”

“Yes,” I say with a surprised laugh. “Jaxon played, and so does his brother. I worked with him on the farm in high school, and whenever he’d start talking about hockey, his face would light up.”

The first time I saw Jaxon play in high school, I finally understood why he didn’t want to stay on the farm. He was born to play hockey.

“Is he nice to you?” Mom asks out of the blue.

I tuck a stray hair behind my ear. “We’re just coworkers, Mom.”

Mom’s mouth curves into a sly smile. “That boy was a looker, even back in high school.”

A laugh sputters out of me. “Mom!”

She beams. “Nothing wrong with appreciating a strapping man like Jaxon.”

Strapping is right. I think of him lifting me off that horse, those firm hands on my waist, reminding me just how long it’s been since a man’s touched me. He could probably throw hay bales all day and still look annoyingly good doing it.

Definitely not a boy anymore.

“He went to the NHL?” she asks.

“Right after high school.”

I knew he’d be gone as soon as he could leave this town. He was just like Rebel, wild and hard to tame, and nothing in Golden Springs was going to slow him down from reaching his goal.

“You know what’ll happen when he makes it big in hockey?” Mom had warned back then. “He’ll be gone. Might never come back.”

She was thinking of men like my father—the ones who didn’t stick around. Once the lights of Nashville lured Dad away, we never saw him again. He’d send me a Christmas gift some years, if he remembered at all, but eventually that stopped coming too. I’ve spent a long time trying to pretend the hole he left had healed over.

“Maybe I could go to your farm someday,” she says. “To see your flowers.”

“I’d like that,” I say before standing to go.

“You’ll come back soon?”

“Every Saturday,” I remind her, although I know she’ll forget by tomorrow.

“Thank you for the flowers,” she says, fingering the petals lightly. “You didn’t have to bring me these.”

“I wanted to.” Growing flowers is how I feel closer to her, or at least the person she used to be when her mind was clear.

I wave one last time, then slip out into the hallway, pulling the door most of the way closed behind me.

Not everyone understands what it means to have a parent with early-onset Alzheimer's. The things that slip away aren’t always the big memories. Mom used to know which ice cream was my favorite. She’d ask about Larissa and would call me on my birthday. She doesn’t remember any of those things now. And I can’t explain to Jaxon what it’s like to grieve someone who is still here—to miss a person who is sitting right in front of you.

My mom remembered Jaxon Chance, someone she hasn’t seen in fourteen years, but she doesn’t remember her daughter, who visits every week.