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On that, I turn back down the short, cracked walkway, headed for my car.
“You really are a bitch, you know that?” My mother calls after me. My blood runs cold. “You think you’re better than me. But you’re not. You just got lucky. You got a bunch of scholarships to put you through school. And you met some rich guy who can’t see you for the trash you are. But don’t get it twisted—youaretrash, Alana.”
I look over my back at her, a mix of sadness and anger in my chest. “You know, I almost felt guilty for having to do this. Thank you for reminding me that it’s the right decision and that I’m well within my right to stand up for myself.”
I stride toward the police officer and he meets me partway.
“Family can be tough, huh?” He gives me a small compassionate smile.
“Yeah.” I can only nod. Because smiling is too hard right now. “Thanks for helping me with this.”
“No problem.”
With one final nod to Mendoza, I sink behind the wheel of my car and pull away from my mother’s house, the cop car following after me for a few miles.
I expected that I’d be rattled and regretful after this difficult conversation, but surprisingly, I actually feel lighter. Refreshed. Relieved. I can’t say whether my threats will really sink in with the woman, but I feel better knowing I put my foot down and showed her that I’m serious about establishing boundaries. As uncomfortable as it was, I think it was a necessary part of reclaiming my self-respect.
This is what Ziggy talked about. This is me, actively working on healing myself.
With a cleansing sigh, I wipe my mental slate clean, grab my purse, and climb out of my car.
I’m on Main Street in front of The Wildberry Bakery. It’s been a minute since I’ve gotten my butt over here, and I’ve been finding myself missing Grammy and her homemade cookies all week.
Lately, I’ve been burying my broken heart in strawberry swirl ice cream. But today, I’m in the mood for the fresh baked chocolate and sugary goodness that only Grammy’s signature cookies can provide.
As I approach the shop, I catch a glimpse of the old lady at her infamous window front work table. I wave at her and she waves back, squinting through the glass like she doesn’t quite recognize me. Still, the sight of her warms my sluggish heart.
When I get inside, it’s the afternoon lull. Only one teenage kid is sitting at the front table doing homework and sipping on a coffee. I say ‘hi’ to Maya who’s working at the cash register. I’m about to place my order when Grammy pokes her head out of the kitchen.
“Alana, my girl! Is that you?” she shouts from the doorway.
“Hey, Grammy. How are you?” I force a smile even though the corners of my lips feel like they’re weighed down my dumbbells.
“I’m doing fine, dearie,” the old woman says. “How are you?” She scans my face. I know they say that Grammy is losing her eyesight but from the way she looks at me, it’s like she sees everything. So why bother lie?
“I just came in looking for chocolate muffins to bury my sorrows in. I kind of need to be out of the house.”
“Well I could sure use a hand back here in the kitchen.”
I exchange a look with Maya. It’s no secret around town—if you aren’t a Westbrook, don’t even think of going anywhere near Maude Westbrook’s kitchen. Her coveted recipes are a secret she guards fiercely for her family.
When Davis and I were married, I shared many treasured moments in the kitchen with Grammy. Back in those good old days, the old woman insisted on teaching me all sorts of recipes to pass down to the next generation of Westbrooks. However, since my divorce from Davis, I accepted that I lost that privilege.
Yet, here she is today, inviting me behind the counter once more. I may have kept Davis’s last name but we all know that I’m no longer a true Westbrook. So the implication of Grammy’s gesture gets me all choked up.
“Come on, Alana.” She impatiently sweeps her arm through the air. “Get over here and get to work,” Grammy demands.
“Oh, I couldn’t. I know your baking is a family thing, and well, I’m not exactly family anymore.”
“But you are, dearie.”
In my mind, all hope is gone for my relationship with Davis. But maybe Maude still holds hope for her grandson and me. Maybe she still sees children in the future for us. That vote of confidence is pretty special.
“Now get that pretty little tushy over here and mix this batter. My arm’s getting tired.”
She’s got arms of steel, so I know it’s just an excuse. But I think it’s sweet that she wants to include me. And after the conversation I just had with my own mother, Grammy’s kindness makes me want to cry. Her desire to include me cracks my soul, in the best of ways.
“Yeah. Of course.” I say with a watery smile, taking shaky steps behind the counter.
