Page 29 of Rescued By the Mountain Man’s Pumpkin

How was the festival?

Me:

Beautiful. The farm was perfect.

Mom:

And your farmer?

My fingers hover. Delete what I typed. Try again. Delete that too.

Me:

I think I messed up, Mom.

Mom:

Call me.

She picks up on the first ring. Doesn't say hello. Just waits.

"He thinks I'm leaving," I say. "There's an offer for a winter series. Colorado. He saw the email before I could explain."

"Are you leaving?"

"I don't know."

A pause. My mother's pauses are different from Deck's. Hers are warm. Full of breath. She's thinking, not retreating.

"Baby girl," she says. "You've been traveling for two years looking for something. Have you found it?"

The flannel on the pillow. His coffee in my hands every morning. The fog on the lower pasture at dawn. The sound of his laugh, rare and quiet, earned.

"Yeah," I say. "I think I have."

"Then you already know the answer. You're just scared to say it."

She's right. She's always right. My mother, who never left Oakland, who cooked the whole world into a two-bedroom kitchen, who taught me that home isn't where you start from. Home is where you stop moving.