Her hand rises to my forehead, and her eyes go wide. “Oh sorry about that,” she says, laughing as she quickly pulls her hand away. “Motherly instinct.”
Something stirs in me—a pang, a memory of my own mother’s absence of instinct—and my stomach clenches. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “I think it’s…sweet.”
She goes quiet, thoughtful. Then, carefully begins, “I hope when I said you’d be a great mother if you had kids, it didn’t bother you. I’m not saying you should or shouldn’t have kids. I just see how you are with mine. Not everyone wants kids, and that’s okay.”
Something inside me snaps, like a frayed rope finally giving way. Before I can stop it, words tumble out, raw and unguarded. “I think I do want kids.”
The admission hangs between us, fragile yet undeniable, like a secret too long kept and finally out in the open. My chest tightens, my heartbeat drumming in my ears. And for the first time in a long time, I feel like maybe…maybe I’m finally admitting what I’ve wanted all along.
She nods slowly. “Okay.” She doesn’t realize how big of a statement that was, how I had to push through, and overcome years of lectures before I could finally come to it—admit it out loud.
“No, you don’t understand,” I start, panic and hesitation twisting my stomach into knots. “My career…”
“You can have a family and a career if that’s what’s worrying you,” she says gently, her hand brushing against my arm, warm and supportive. Her gaze studies my face, patient but probing, as if she’s trying to read the storm behind my eyes.
“I know that,” I whisper, my voice almost swallowed by the noise of the rink. “But…” I bite my bottom lip and shift from one foot to the other. How do I even say this without sounding…ridiculous? “I… I’m not sure I want the career.”
Her eyes narrow, a flicker of curiosity and caution, but not judgment. “I always thought you were defined by your career and the hard-hitting stories you pour your life into.”
“Probably because I put that out there, but…I’m not sure if it’s what I really want.”
Her eyes are warm and understanding. “That’s…a big thing to admit,” she says softly.
I let out a laugh, bitter and self-aware. “I know it sounds strange. And as women, we’re judged for everything. Damned if we do, damned if we don’t.”
She tilts her head, studying me. “I think I understand what you’re trying to say. If we have kids and work, society frowns. If we have kids and don’t work…they still frown.”
“That’s it exactly.” Relief bursts through me that she understands, that someone finally does. I let out a breath, feeling a measure of relief to finally admit that to myself.
“I worked so hard to get where I am,” I continue, voice trembling, “I could go so much further. My mother…she gave up everything for me so I could have this. She wanted me to succeed, to be happy. To have the life she couldn’t.”
“Your mother?” she asks quietly, genuinely curious. “The life she couldn’t have?”
Of course she’s confused. I’m telling her things in pieces. “Dad left when I was young. She had to put her career aside to raise me. She…she wanted me to have the world, and she still does. All she wants is for me to find success, to be happy.”
“Ah.” Her eyes soften. She nods slightly to the bartender, who arrives with her drink. She asks for another, then slides the first one across the bar toward me. “I think you might need this,” she says with a small, knowing smile.
I snatch it up, laughing, though it comes out garbled. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”
“Rowyn, I’m not Melanie, and you can talk to her if you want, but it sounds to me like she’s projecting. Wanting you to live the life she never got to live, even if it’s not the life you want.”
I take the glass of wine and sip it. The cool alcohol slides over my tongue, smooth and sharp at once, and something inside me loosens. My lungs expand a little easier. My thoughts stop ricocheting off the walls of my skull.
For the first time in a long while, I feel…space.
Space to breathe.
Space to admit what I want.
Space to wonder who I’d be if I chose something for me instead of who I’m supposed to be for everyone else.
Maybe I could find balance.
Or maybe—I swallow, the wine warming my throat—I could choose something entirely different. Something that terrifies me in all the ways that matter.
“Jaxon,” Gina murmurs, voice careful, like she’s testing thin ice. “Does Jaxon want this too? Or is that the other reason you look so shaken by the idea?”
A groan slips out before I can strangle it, caught somewhere between frustration and longing. I lift the glass to my lips again, desperate to bury the sound, but it’s too late. Gina hears everything.