Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(54)
“It’s that I don’t need that yet, son,” Morty’s father insisted, holding up a staying hand. “When I do, you’ll be the first to know, I guarantee it.”
“But you’ve been saying that for months now, Pops,” Morty pointed out, head tilted. “And remember what the therapist told us. It might stabilize you even better than the cane. I’ve got a bunch of articles about the benefits . . . will you at least look through those? For me, Pops? I can send you the links.”
“I’ll keep thinking about it,” Armando replied equably, giving a measured nod. “And of course I’ll give your articles a read, son. Send them anytime.”
Morty nodded, seemingly appeased. I’d been so steeled for an explosion, or an icing-over between them, that it was absolutely stunning to me when none came. The discussion was simply, peaceably put away, tabled for another time, and no trace of bitterness lingered.
Compared to the household in which I’d grown up, it was like witnessing a miracle.
When it came to me, it wasn’t like the tension was absent, conveniently sluiced away. All was not forgiven; what had happened between our families wasn’t going to be written off as water under the bridge just because I’d brought orchids and apple cake and their son suddenly—inexplicably—found me so compelling. Meghan, particularly, maintained her reserve, made sure I was clear on where I stood with her as a Blackmoore avatar, though she didn’t do it in any cutting way. And it wasn’t like she was fundamentally incorrect to be on the defensive with me, given that I’d been thinking the worst kind of elitist thoughts about the size of her family’s home not two hours before.
And they were all bemused by me, I could tell, beyond my family name. I was clearly nothing like anyone Morty had brought home before, and they simply weren’t sure what to make of me as a potential partner for him.
But they tried. For Morty, they tried in a way my parents had never done for me, in any situation I could think of. They made an effort to engage me in conversation whenever it was natural and unforced. I had a lovely little chat with Fiona, when we discovered that we’d visited many of the same beautiful places in North Wales. When I admired the gorgeous dining table, it turned out that it was an heirloom just like I’d thought, from the Welsh side of her family; it’d crossed the ocean with Fiona thirty years ago. And for once, my forced familiarity with the FIFA World Cup, courtesy of Gareth’s obsession with soccer, came in handy—Armando seemed genuinely thrilled that someone besides him was conversant with the Portuguese national team’s various challenges this season.
Even Meghan warmed to me the slightest bit when I complimented how wonderful and patient she was with Sol, how clearly precocious her daughter was. The kind of daughter I hoped I’d have, one day.
“You want kids, really?” she said, wrinkling her long nose, so genuinely taken aback I wondered if maybe she thought we Blackmoores somehow outsourced procreation in addition to our baking. (To be fair, I did have a cousin who’d had all three of hers by surrogate, and in my mind there wasn’t anything particularly wrong with that, either.)
“Yup,” I confirmed, fortified by enough sangria in my bloodstream to feel both relaxed and candid, and to not take offense where none was probably meant. “I’ve always known I did, maybe just because I wanted to do things so differently from my parents. My mother and father . . . well, they didn’t set a superlative example of what it means to parent well, to build your children up. Make them feel loved, give them a soft place to land.”
“That must’ve been hard, growing up like that,” she murmured, and I could see she meant it from the tentative flicker of sympathy in her dark eyes, along with the acknowledgment that it probably wasn’t easy for someone like me to admit this to someone like her. A person secure in the knowledge that her parents adored her.
“It was,” I said, with a half shrug. “But there are so many other, infinitely better ways to do it. The way you are with Sol, for instance. So completely present and kind. Even if allegedly stingy on the sugar.”
“Well, thank you for that,” she said with a little laugh, her olive cheeks pinking. “It sure feels like I’m failing hard, a whole lot of the time. And this is supposed to be my most important job. So, you know, that’s not great.”
“You aren’t failing,” I assured her, wishing I was the type of touchy person who squeezed people’s arms for emphasis. “You’re doing a wonderful job with her, it’s obvious. That’s what I’d want to be as a mother—exactly the way you are with her.”
And it was true. I wanted all of this for myself. I wanted the thoughtful way Meg talked to and played with her daughter; the bottomless love and consideration, the clear effort she was expending into being a parent. I wanted the mellow way Morty and Meg coexisted, the sense that they’d never been pitted against each other as siblings like some torturous rite of passage, or otherwise expected to vie for their parents’ affection. And most of all I wanted the way Fiona and Armando treated each other; the casual, fond touches passed between them like little gifts, so unlike the frosty tolerance between my own parents, the way my father barely existed as a person outside of my mother’s overbearing influence.
I wanted everything about these family dynamics, these painless ways to love your blood that I hadn’t even fully believed existed in real life.