“Well, I like it. I think they look pretty. And your father never let me do campy holiday décor. He said it was junky,” she says, moving right along to the next picture in the pile, this one a larger framed painting. “And yes, this,” she says, nodding to the packet from the law firm, “means I am filing for divorce.”

Wow. I wasn’t expecting this, and I’m so overcome with pride for my mom that I rush her, leaping on her lap and tearing the paper she’s cutting. I kiss her cheek as I hug her, and she laughs with me, but only for a second or two, her focus quickly going back to her task—her eyes never staying on mine for long. “I’m not quite to celebrating status yet. I’m still sort of in acceptance…if that’s okay,” she says, curling ribbon.

“Acceptance is good,” I say, pulling on one of the curly cues on her completed present, letting it spring back into place. “What made you change your mind…if…that’s okay to ask?”

There’s a harsh ripping sound as she presses with the scissors firmly, her hand striking against the ribbon grain with more force, each pass growing a little rougher until she finally snares one of the ribbons against the blade, ripping it from the cluster. She sets the scissors down, untangling her legs as she stands, her gait wobbly as she makes her way back to the kitchen, reaching for a half-empty wine bottle. When she comes back to the living room, she pauses before sitting back in her spot, her lips forming a tight line, her smile like the Mona Lisa—only there if you look for it.

“I was cleaning out old boxes a couple days ago from your room, the empties from the move. I thought I found one under your bed, and when I dragged it into view, I saw it had a pretty expensive-looking dress in it,” she says. I wince knowing what she saw, and I’m angry at myself for being so careless with it and not hiding it better or simply throwing it in the trash like I had planned.

“Curious, I opened the letter that was tucked inside the box,” she says, her eyes on mine, her smirk somehow growing more wicked. “She wrote you a lovely letter, full of naïve apologies and half-baked excuses. She explained how broken she was over losing him, how he was re-promising himself to me, and how she let him…ha ha! She let him go, because she knew that’s what was right. You needed to have a father at home, she said. And that’s the statement that made me stop. You need a father? Kens, I look at you and have no idea how you’ve come out as normal as you have. And when I read that, it hit me…you don’t need that father. And I don’t need that man.”

Well, damn. I don’t think I’ve ever been more proud of my mother, and all I want to do is celebrate with her. But she’s put a ban on celebrating, so instead, I sit with her on the floor and wrap three more pictures from the collection from our walls, not prying any more, and only taking in the extra information she offers.

“And I hope you didn’t want that dress,” she says finally, mid-tape.

“Why?” I ask, holding the paper flat for her to fasten.

“Because I threw that damn thing, and her letter, in the fire,” she says, her teeth tearing at the ribbon in her mouth, her eyes intent on the project at hand. I smile, and I let it beam, because she’s not looking.

“Did you get the rest of your mail?” she asks, clearly done on the subject of my father.

“Oh, no. I’ll grab it before I head upstairs. I need to call Owen. He might not be moving after all,” I say, my mom smiling softly and glancing my direction, but her thoughts still clearly rooted in her own drama. I look forward to the day this chapter is done, because it would be nice to have my mom guide me through some of this.

I sweep the rest of the pile of mail into my arms and race up the stairs, positioning myself in front of the window. Owen’s waiting on the other side; I can see the top of his hat, his back resting against the window’s wall. I drop the mail in my lap in front of me and reach for my phone to text him, but before I dial I catch a glimpse of one letter—the address on it familiar, the seal exactly as it always appeared in my dreams.

The envelope is thin, and I’m not sure how to take that, so I slide my finger along the edge, tearing one end carefully, pulling the typed letter from the University of Chicago out and unfolding it slowly.

The first sentence stops my breath.

We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected...

I drop it instantly, exchanging it for my phone, dialing Owen, who picks up in the middle of my first ring.

“Hey,” he says, turning to face me, the sight of his eyes on mine like coming home.