Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 119005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
“Is it about Callan? Because your mother and I would really like to meet him if you two are getting serious.”
“We are serious,” I replied. “I thought it would be less intense for him if he came to a Sunday dinner. That way he’s not facing you two alone. And he’s already met Elle and Grandma Elodie and Grandpa Clark. They liked him.”
“We know.” Mum rested her chin on her palm. “If a Sunday dinner is what you want, that’s what we’ll do. What about tomorrow?”
“He has a match tomorrow, but he’s free next Sunday.”
“How convenient,” Dad murmured, visibly irritated.
“Aye, Dad, Callan rearranged the Scottish Pro League tournament just so he didn’t have to do Sunday dinner until next week.”
Mum snorted.
“You can surely wait.”
Dad grumbled under his breath before taking a sip of coffee.
“This talk isn’t about Callan? Because your dad and I have been worrying like crazy. We thought you might be pregnant or something.”
“Not pregnant.” I took my coffee over and sat down on the opposite side of the table so I could look at them both.
Dad’s eyes narrowed. “You’re nervous. Why? You never have to be nervous with us.”
They appeared almost wounded by the notion.
I exhaled slowly. “I’m nervous because I feel a little like I’ve been lying to you for years.”
Mum placed a hand on Dad’s arm to halt whatever he was about to say. And instead she said, “Explain.”
Cupping my palms around my hot mug for comfort, I took another deep breath and confessed, “It started with Amanda …”
I managed to get through it all without crying. About my grief, about feeling like I failed Amanda, and how that fear of failure grew into anxiety. About having a prescription for anti-anxiety medication, the panic attacks, and how it all flared up again while growing the company and reconnecting with Callan.
When I finished, Dad leaned forward, expression anguished. “Why didn’t you tell us any of this?”
And that’s when the tears came. “Because admitting it out loud felt like I was actually failing.” The sob escaped before I could stop it. Years of keeping it all locked up, flooding out.
Dad’s chair scraped back and he rounded the table, pulling me out of my seat to hug me. So tight. I held onto him and cried.
“You are not a failure, my sweet girl.” Dad kissed the top of my head. “Never. And if you think we didn’t notice how stressed you are, you’re wrong. We noticed. We just didn’t realize it had gotten this bad. But we know now, and we are always here when and if you need to talk.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I whispered.
The sound of Mum’s chair moving brought my head up.
She was pacing by the island, her hands in her hair. “Mum?”
Dad straightened. “Jocelyn?”
Mum waved him away, not looking at us but visibly trembling.
“Babe, don’t do that. This is not your fault.”
Mum’s fault? How could it be Mum’s fault?
She whirled around, eyes bright with tears, her expression aggrieved. “Not my fault?” She gestured to me. “My daughter thinks having panic attacks and anxiety makes her a failure. So much so she hid it from us, Braden. My kid. Took all of that and her grief on her own shoulders for almost seven years.”
“What’s going on?”
Dad gave me another squeeze before he released me, rounding the table toward Mum.
“Don’t.” She backed away from him, her gaze darting to me. Pleading with me. “I thought being a good mom meant sheltering your kids from everything that might scare them, including myself. I thought being a good mom meant putting on a front of being strong all the time.” She swiped impatiently at the tears rolling down her cheeks. “And your dad tried to tell me I didn’t have to hide it from you, and I still did and now look. Look what happened.”
“Jocelyn, don’t take this on, babe.”
“What is going on?” I repeated, slowly making my way around the table toward Mum because she was freaking me out. I hated seeing Mum in tears. She wasn’t a person prone to crying.
Dad looked ready to pounce on her as soon as she’d let him. The fact that he didn’t do it meant he was holding back for a reason.
Mum’s shoulders slumped as she met my gaze. “There’s a lot to tell you. First and foremost, I suffered PTSD around the time I met your dad. I started having panic attacks brought on by suppressed memories of my family.”
My lips parted in shock. “You?”
“Me. And not only that … I started seeing a therapist who was my therapist for a long time. She made me realize that I was also suffering PTSD and feelings of failure over the death of … my best friend.”
Stunned, I gaped at her. I knew about Mum’s best friend Dru dying in high school. I knew because she’d told me when Amanda died. She’d been horrified we shared such a terrible bond of grief.