Chapter 3
Morning light cut through the lace curtains of the sunroom, casting long, dusty beams across an abandoned corner that Jax had largely ignored for years. Clara was already there, sitting in a wicker rocking chair with a steaming mug of black coffee. She wasn't wearing her black gloves. Her bare hands wrapped securely around the ceramic mug, absorbing the warmth.
Jax walked in holding a wrench and a rag, the scent of motor oil clinging to his denim jeans. He had spent the entire night in the garage, tearing down an old engine and putting it back together just to keep his hands busy. "Morning, Ma," he said, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
"Good morning, Jax," she replied, her eyes fixed on the overgrown rosebushes outside the window. "Sit down. We need to talk about things we've swept under the rug."
Jax pulled up a heavy wooden stool, feeling awkward and out of place in the sunlit room. "About last night..." he started, but Clara raised a single, scarred hand to stop him.
"Not just last night. About the last forty years," Clara said, her tone surprisingly steady. She took a slow sip of coffee before continuing. "When Arthur brought me here from Chicago, I was twenty-two. I played the piano, I painted watercolors, and I dreamed of traveling to the coast. Arthur bought me this house, gave me security, and quietly locked away my paints. He thought he was protecting me from disappointment. When you grew up, you took over the key ring."
Jax opened his mouth to defend himself, to speak of the medical emergencies, the financial sacrifices, the constant worry, but the words died on his tongue. He realized that protection had become a polite word for control. He had made all her decisions—what she ate, who she saw, how she spent her days—because it was easier than letting her take risks.
"I didn't mean to smother you," Jax muttered, staring down at his grease-stained knuckles. "I just wanted to make sure you never had to worry about anything."
"Worry is part of living, Jax," Clara said softly. "When you insulate someone from every discomfort, you also insulate them from their own life. At the restaurant yesterday, when the waitress put that fish in front of me, I wasn't just crying about salmon. I was crying because I realized I haven't made a single independent choice of my own since 1984."
The honesty was brutal, cutting through years of familial pretense. Jax felt a heavy ache in his chest, mixed with a surging desire to make things right. "Okay," he said after a long pause. "What do you want to do?"
May you like
Clara looked surprised, as if she had expected him to push back, to offer a compromise wrapped in more restrictions. A faint, genuine smile touched the corners of her mouth for the first time in memory. "For starters," she said, setting her mug down with a decisive click, "I want to sell that dining room table. And I want to sign up for painting classes at the community center."
Jax exhaled a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, a strange mixture of apprehension and relief washing over him. "Painting classes," he repeated, nodding slowly. "All right. I'll clear out the old studio in the back shed this afternoon."
