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She smiles at that, soft and fond, the corners of her eyes crinkling with genuine affection.

"He has that effect," she says, and there's something in her tone.

A mother's knowing, a woman's understanding that makes me feel like I've been welcomed into a secret circle of those who truly know Derrick Shaw.

I take the seat across from her, the quiet stretching comfortably between us for a moment.

Derrick's humming carries from the kitchen, Some Day At Christmas by Stevie Wonder under his breath, the sounds of pots and pans clinking in rhythm.

The scene is domestic, startlingly so, and perfect.

Almost jarringly perfect, like I've stumbled into someone else's life.

Except it feels like mine now, a fact that still catches me off-guard when I let myself think about it.

"You really let him do all the cooking today?" I ask, running my palm over the worn arm of the chair, feeling the gentle abrasion of the fabric against my callused skin.

Elaine chuckles, a warm sound that reminds me of Derrick's laugh.

"He insisted. Said if I so much as looked at the oven, he'd call security.

As if I'm not the one who taught him everything he knows.

" Her fingers tap lightly against the cover of her book, a familiar gesture I've seen Derrick do a hundred times when he's making a point.

"He just wants to take care of you," I say, watching how the sunlight plays across her features, highlighting the resemblance between mother and son.

Her gaze lands on me then, sharp in the way only mothers can manage. It isn't hostile. Just aware. Measured. Like she's reading pages of me that I didn't realize were open for viewing.

"He's happy," she says simply. "He hasn't been this way in a long time. Not since he left for Toronto. Not since the accident." The last word hangs between us, weighted with all it represents—pain, fear, uncertainty.

I nod slowly, remembering the hollow look in his eyes those first weeks. "He deserves to be."

"He does," she agrees. Her fingers still on the book, and she looks at me fully now.

"And I know I don't need to say it but I'm going to anyway.

Thank you. For being there for him. Even before all of this.

When I couldn't be." There's a vulnerability in her voice, a rare crack in her composure that makes my chest ache.

I swallow hard, uncomfortable with the gratitude. "You don't have to thank me. I didn't do it for recognition." The truth is messier, I did it first out of guilt, then out of something deeper that took root when I wasn't looking.

"I know," she says. Then more gently: "I just wanted you to hear it. From me. He's my heart. Always has been. Love my son, Sebastian."

The words land like a blessing and a command all in one.

My throat tightens. I've said a lot of things to Derrick over the last two months but not that.

Not the one thing he probably needs to hear most. Because I've been afraid.

Afraid of the weight of those words, afraid of how completely I mean them, afraid of how easily he's broken through every barrier I've spent years constructing.

Sitting here in the morning light, with his mother looking at me like she already knows, like maybe she's known longer than I have, it feels easy. Like the most natural truth I've ever spoken.

"Every day," I say quietly. "I do." The admission feels like setting down a burden I didn't know I was carrying.

Elaine smiles, and it's full of grace and something like peace. The lines around her eyes deepen, mapping years of joy and struggle. "Welcome to the family, then."

I nod, throat still tight with emotion I rarely allow myself to show. "Thank you." Two simple words that feel inadequate for what she's offering, acceptance, belonging, home.

For a moment, we let the quiet return, filled only with the distant sounds of Derrick creating something for us, humming his Christmas song in the kitchen, unaware that his mother has just handed me a gift I never thought I'd receive.

In the stillness, my mind strays. I can still hear my father's voice from the week after the gallery reveal—cutting, cold, echoing in my head.

"No son of mine holds another man's hand in public. No son of mine parades around like that. And you paint? You paint, Sebastian? You've embarrassed us enough. We want nothing to do with it. I don't care how much money you've made. It's disgraceful."

I haven't told Derrick. Haven't told anyone. Just shut the phone off and stared at the lake for an hour afterward, too angry to move, too hollow to breathe.

My mother's silence on the matter only hurt further.

She sent a text only to say she was ‘processing’, a single word that carried the weight of decades of complicated loyalty.

After all she did for me, all the things she allowed me to do, even when my father protested.

The art lessons smuggled in as extra tutoring, the supplies hidden in her craft room, the quiet encouragement when no one else was looking.

She'd been my silent champion, my secret ally in a house where dreams had strict parameters.

Now, it feels he's finally silenced her.

Decades of her careful rebellion crushed under the heel of his disappointment.

I wonder if she stands in their kitchen now, staring out the window like I stared at the lake, searching for words that won't come, for courage that's momentarily fled.

The betrayal stings. It's not unexpected but I'd foolishly allowed myself to hope for better, even after all these years.

Here, now, Elaine has given me something I didn't realize I needed. A place. A yes. A quiet, unwavering welcome.

I don't respond right away when she asks if I'm okay. I just nod. Maybe, for the first time in a long time, I am.

Derrick leans into the room then, apron smudged with flour, a smile breaking across his face.

"Turkey's almost ready. Hope y'all are hungry.

" There's a smear of gravy near his collarbone that he hasn't noticed, and flour dusting his forearms like snow.

In the doorway, he looks lighter than I've seen him in weeks.

Elaine smiles, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Starving."

I look at him like he hung the stars, arranged constellations by hand just to guide me home.

The way sunlight catches on his curls, how his shoulders relax when he's not carrying the weight of expectations, the tiny crease between his eyebrows that appears when he's focusing on something he loves.

I've memorized it all, cataloged every detail like precious artifacts.

God help me, I love him. The realization sits in my chest, no longer a visitor but a permanent resident.

It's terrifying and steadying all at once.

This feeling that existed long before I had the courage to name it, will remain long after the words fade from the air between us.

When the time is right, I won't wait to say it.