Page 96 of Letting Go at 40

Mason sucks in a sharp breath but I don’t glance at him. I follow my daughter who rushes from the room, thundering down the hall.

+ + +

Gently, I tap at her bedroom door. “Mila, let me in.”

“What’s going on?” Bryce steps into the hallway, and because my mortification can’t grow any deeper, I tell him the truth.

“Mila caught me kissing Mason.”

“Way to go, Mom,” Bryce teases, staring at me with eyes that look like his father’s. Guilt should hit me harder, but it just doesn’t.

I’m not ashamed of kissing Mason.

Maybe a little thrown off because it wasn’t how I wanted Mila to learn I was interested in Mason.

Maybe a little embarrassed that I was scaling a man in the den when Ben and I weren’t really like that before our kids.

“You really think it’s okay?” I question as if my seventeen-year-old has the wisdom to answer me.

“I say do what makes you happy.” Bryce smiles at me before his expression sobers a little. “Dad would want that. You to be happy, that is.”

“I know. But are you really okay with it being Mason?” Despite all their guy-code talk on New Year’s Day, which I didn’t understand in the least, I needed to know Bryce was good with me dating. Dating anyone, including Mason.

“Is it weird? A little bit.” Bryce stares at me. “But your smile is finally back and I’m thinking that’s because of Mason and Lynlee being here.”

They are kind of a package deal, but then again, so am I. I have Mila and Bryce to consider most as they are both home with me.

And Bryce is right, my smile has been back. I’ve felt lighter, happier, having Mason and Lynlee in our lives. My life hasn’t been anything like I thought it would be, but I’m glad they are here with us.

“So, any words of advice?” I tip my head at Mila’s door.

Bryce steps forward and pounds on his sister’s door. “Meme, open up.” He uses her childhood nickname in a tone matching Ben’s, and I’m startled by the likeness to his father in both his features and his voice.

The door slowly opens, and she sees me. Bryce catches the door before she can close it, and he presses it open further, his strength doubles hers.

“Don’t be a brat.”

“I’m not a brat,” she states, sounding like one.

“Then talk to Mom.”

This must be my opening to explain myself, although I don’t wish to do it from the hallway. “May I come in?” My hope is showing her respect for her privacy will teach her to respect my decisions. Then again, she’s twelve. Life lessons are hard when your dendrites detach, and your hormones wreak havoc.

Mila opens the door a little wider but steps into her room, tossing herself on her bed with her face to the wall.

I take a seat beside her, placing a hand on her lower back. “I’m sorry you saw what you saw, but I’m not sorry for kissing him.”

“It’s Uncle Mason,” she groans. “Isn’t there some rule about that?”

“He isn’t a blood relative. He was your father’s friend.” I pause. “He’s my friend.”

Mila flips her head to look at me over her shoulder. “If you tell me he’s your special friend, I’m going to puke.”

“Excuse me?” I stammer. Who is this child and what possessed her to speak like that?

“Is he your boyfriend?” Disgust fills her voice.

“We’re . . . friends.”