Southern Heartbreaker (Charleston Heat 4)

I feel like my heart is breaking and being put back together all at once.

The sensation—the emotion—is overwhelming.

I just cry. And cry some more.

Mom patiently wipes away my tears, handing me tissues. “Remember why you decided to be with Ford in the first place. It’s because he makes you happy. But trying to do all those things, all at once? That didn’t make you happy. That made you stressed. Exhausted. You’re pushing yourself to the brink when really you need to sit and rest.”

I arch a brow. “That’s rich, coming from the woman who hasn’t sat down in almost forty years.”

“I know, I know. I’m guilty of pushing myself way past my limits, too. Apple,” she grins, motioning between us. “Meet tree. But I didn’t have a mother who encouraged me to be different. To do differently.” My throat aches when she smooths my hair over my shoulder. “I’m telling you that now, Eva. You’re going to run yourself into the ground if you keep trying to do so much. And I know from personal experience how much that affects your life and the people you love. Leave the Superwoman idea behind. She’s not real. But you? You and your fabulous blog and your fabulous books? Your smile when you see Ford? Those things are. And having them will require sacrifices, but some of the things you’ll have to sacrifice—like your perfectionism—is something I think you’ll be glad to see go. That’s not giving an inch. That’s gaining one. Gaining miles of space to be yourself, and be happy.”

We meet eyes. A beat of understanding passes between us. It’s my turn to give her hand a squeeze.

“I just don’t know how to do things halfway,” I say. “Like I said, when I do things, I jump in with both feet. Always. If I’m not going above and beyond, then I’m failing.”

“And that’s served you well in your career. But in your relationships?” Mom shrugs. “Maybe not so much. With children—you don’t have to earn their love. They just give it to you. Freely. It’s one of the most awesome things about them. But you have this misperception that you have to earn Bryce’s affection. She doesn’t care if you’re the head coach of her soccer team, or if the pizza you give her is homemade or from the freezer. She just cares that you’re there. That you’re spending time with her.”

I blink back a barrage of tears. “Makes sense.”

“And you’re wrong to believe you can’t do the juggle. You’re just trying to juggle too much. Take some things off your plate, mija. Stuff that shouldn’t be there in the first place during such a busy season in your life. The coaching position, for starters. That’s an easy one. The homemade pizza, too. If you have time for those things once you’ve turned in your book—then great. Do them then. But right now?” She purses her lips and shakes her head. “Bryce will adore you no matter what. Take it from me. I signed up for everything and anything when you kids were growing up. Troop leader, PTA president, room mom. And do you remember any of it?”

I grin. “I remember you being there, but that’s about it.”

“Exactly. And that’s all that counts. Not the million and a half cupcakes I convinced myself I had to make from scratch. You don’t have to be perfect to be a good parent, Eva. You don’t have to be perfect to deserve anyone’s love. Not Bryce’s, not Ford’s. Not your family’s. You just have to be there.”

I’m crying in earnest now. The tightness in my chest has loosened, and I’m starting to glimpse that lightness again. The kind I feel when I’m with Ford.

Ugh, Mom always gives the best advice. Even if she doesn’t take it herself all the time, she’s got a nuanced understanding of right and wrong. It’s something I’d like to incorporate into my own parenting if—if—Ford takes me back.

I remember what he told me that night at Henley’s. Trust the universe. Trust your process.

I’ve paid lip service to those ideas over the past month or so. But I haven’t actually embraced them. I’m still holding on. Still trying and pushing and hurting.

Living like this hurts. It’s sucking the joy out of what’s supposed to be joyful. Mom is right. The whole reason why I decided to be with Ford—the whole reason I signed up for parenthood—was to be happy.

I should’ve aimed for happiness. Instead, I aimed for perfection. Mostly from myself. Thinking that if I kept trying, kept doing, kept my grip firm on my life and my schedule and my relationships, I could force a happily ever after into being.

I could control my story and my ending, too. When really, so much of it was never in my control in the first place.