“Where are we going, James?” Cynthia asked from the passenger seat.
Mac offered a smile in response, the same thing he’d been doing every time his mother asked that question. It earned him yet another one of her sighs and an eye roll. She had never been one for surprises. She liked to plan things and be prepared ahead of time.
Mac supposed he got that from his mother.
But today, well, today, she would have to deal with it.
“I hope this is going to be worth making me miss cooking supper,” Cynthia mumbled to herself.
Mac chuckled.
Only his mother.
“Stop fretting, Ma,” Mac said. “You’ll still get to cook, if you’re feeling up to it. Or we could order something—”
“You shut your mouth. That is blasphemy. I don’t order in.”
She’d said the words as if they were dirt she was spitting out.
“Sometimes I do,” Mac replied.
Cynthia clicked her tongue. “I don’t know where I went wrong with you.”
“I look at it like you went completely right with me, actually,” Mac said, never taking his eyes off the quiet, upscale suburban street. “I can cook for myself, or not if I choose.”
“Your wife knows how to cook.”
“We’re busy a lot, Ma. It’s not fair of me to put all of that on her, on top of what she already has, when I am more than capable of feeding myself.”
Mac caught his mother’s slight smile out of the corner of his eye before Cynthia reached over to pat his cheek lightly. He swore he could feel all of his mother’s love and pride in the tender action. Cynthia had never been very vocal about her affections—something Mac had always attributed to her strict upbringing and then her failed marriage—but she never made Mac or his sister feel unloved.
In fact, it was the exact opposite.
Mac knew what love felt like because of his mother.
He was damn grateful to have Cynthia.
Cynthia patted his cheek again. “My good son.”
Mac laughed, giving his mother a sidelong look. “Good to you, Ma.”
“To your family,” she replied just as fast, “and that’s what matters most.”
Well, Mac wasn’t about to argue with his mother on that point.
Finally, Mac’s destination came into view and he pulled the car into a freshly paved driveway of a two-level home with an attached garage. It also sported a large backyard, and a three-foot high, newly painted white-picket fence all around the front of the property to protect the beautifully maintained grass and blooming flower beds.
Flower beds that were filled with newly-planted flowers that were just waiting for a tender pair of hands to care for them.
Hands like his mother’s, he knew.
Mac took the home in again as his mother stared curiously at the house, too. It was three times the size of her current home, with a second level on top of that. The pale yellow siding and rich brown shutters gave the place a welcoming feel. There was no leaking roof, no holes in the walls, and no mortgage owing. The cherry hardwood floors it had throughout the halls and rooms were a style his mother had always silently admired in other people’s homes.
It was a new home for Cynthia.
It was everything she deserved and more, but Mac was well aware his mother would never ask him for it.
Cynthia had raised her children in a home that was just fine for them. But over the years, his mother had always put her children and their needs first before anything else. And so when her home had begun to fall apart, she never complained, but rather, made due with what she had.
It made her happy.
Now, it was Mac’s turn to give back something to his mother and make her happy with more than simply being her good son.
“What is all this?” Cynthia asked. “Who lives here? You should have told me if we were going to be visiting someone, James.”
Mac chuckled.
His mother would never change.
Not that he wanted her to.
“Why don’t we go see,” Mac suggested.
He didn’t give his mother a chance to argue. He pushed out of the car and walked the rest of the driveway, right up the steps, and stood in front of the door. A flower pot rested beside a clean, brand-new welcome mat.
Eventually, Cynthia made her way up to join Mac, her purse under her arm. She admired the things she passed, and once she was at his side, looked to him expectantly.
“Are you going to stand there all day, or knock?” she asked.
Mac shrugged. “Go for it, Ma.”
Cynthia gave him a displeased look, but reached out to press the decorative doorbell. Mac listened as chimes rang a familiar tune from within the home. He waited a few more moments, knowing damn well the whole time that no one would answer.
His mother didn’t know that, however. She pressed the doorbell again, and Mac didn’t stop her. When no one answered yet again, Mac looked to his mother.
“No one is home,” she said.
“Oh, I guess I forgot to mention that, huh?”