Chapter 29

Amelia

I straddle my bike to begin my Monday morning workout as the newest member of the Vancouver Biking Club. The spandex clings to me, a second skin that promises speed and agility. I used to think getting in shape would be a slog, but this—this is freedom. Pedals turn, and with each rotation, the stress of my life melts away, replaced by a growing ease that seeps into my muscles.

The cool morning air rushes past me, whispering through the leaves overhead as I catch up with the group ahead, their silhouettes becoming clearer with every determined push forward. It's getting easier, the rhythm of the ride syncing with the steady beat of my heart, a heart full of ambition for work and for newfound passions outside of it.

"Keep it up, Amelia!" someone shouts, and I can't suppress the grin that stretches across my face.

"Will do!" I call, feeling alive in a way that both invigorates and grounds me. Recent victories in my work life—that blind ad and the interview that followed have turned into a promising new position at Amplify Brands—and my growing love for the road beneath my wheels are all mine, and I'm just getting started.

What I like most about riding with this group is that I follow someone as they navigate our path, so I can think about what's going on in my life. The cycling has become more than just exercise; it's a daily release, a way to channel stress and transform it into something empowering. This is where the idea of Emma Blaze hit me. She's a local who's started to hit big on the international stage as a model and singer. She'll be the perfect face for one of my new clients, a local chocolatier that's also on their way up.

But most importantly, these rides are where I've worked to get over Kent. The group usually gets together after our workouts, and I've met a few guys, but none of them interests me.

"You going to join us at The Breakfast Nook this morning?" asks Rick Newman, a fellow rider, as we finish up our exercise. He's been pretty persistent in trying to meet outside of club activities.

"I can't. I need to get to work. Today's a big day." With a wave, I begin the ride home. I need to shower. The butterflies in my stomach are all a twitter. This is going to be interesting.

An hour later, I walk down the polished hallway of Amplify Brands, one of Vancouver's hottest ad firms, and no place I ever thought I'd land. My heart does a jittery samba in my chest. This is my third day of work at my new ad agency, starting my first full week, and I'm an account manager on a plum account—Divine Delights chocolatier. I'm so glad I took a chance on that blind ad. So far working for Amplify is not just about managing. It's about immersing myself in a world where creativity knows no bounds, where every brainstorm feels like painting with all the colors at once.

"Amelia!" My head whips around at the sound of my name, and I find Mark Dundee, the account manager for HelaFit account, coming toward me. "Just heard from upstairs. They're loving your pitch for Emma Blaze. You're on for presenting to the CEO next week!"

"Really?" My voice shoots high with elation, but I don't care. I'm thrilled, overwhelmed by the validation of my work, my ideas. Emma Blaze, with her sultry voice and eyes that burn with ambition, is a perfect match for the indulgence of Divine Delights' new chocolate line.

"Absolutely," he confirms, giving me a thumbs-up as he strides away, juggling folders like they contain nothing more important than lunch menus.

I pause for a moment outside my cubicle, which I've lined with colorful mood boards and swatches of fabric, reminders of the tangible joy this job brings. Taking a deep breath, I let the excitement bubble within me, barely contained, like champagne fizzing eagerly against the cork.

I tap my foot impatiently, the fork I've been twisting in my fingers casting a dance of light across the rustic wooden table of Forage. It's been two weeks now since I started my new job, and a part of me feels like I should be working on Saturday morning, but instead, I'm here. The aroma of freshly ground coffee and buttery pastries wafts through the air. My eyes flick to the entrance every time the bell above the door jingles, signaling another patron's arrival. But it's not her. Not yet.

"More coffee?" the server asks.

"Please," I reply, offering a smile as she tops off my steaming mug. I need something to do with my hands, something to distract me from the nagging thoughts about why my mother would suddenly want to see me after weeks of silence.

Finally, the bell chimes again, and this time, Sophia walks in. She's surprisingly punctual, only being twenty minutes late. Her hair is swept back in a neat bun, her clothes simple but chic, a vast improvement from the disheveled image that had become her norm. She spots me and hurries over, her movements betraying an anxious energy.

"Amelia, sweetheart, I'm so sorry I'm late," she says in a rush, taking the seat opposite me. Her hands immediately start smoothing imaginary wrinkles in her dress, never quite still.

"It's okay, Mom," I assure her, though I can't shake the hesitation lacing my words. "You look good."

"Thank you, darling." She glances up, her eyes skimming my face with that maternal scrutiny that feels both invasive and endearing. A frown tugs at the corners of her mouth. "You're looking…thin."

The concern in her voice is palpable, and I know it comes from love…or, at least, from whatever complex tangle of emotions we navigate as mother and daughter. I sit up straighter, rolling back my shoulders as I reach for the menu, eager to shift the conversation away from my appearance.

"Actually, I've been getting in shape. Joined a biking club," I say, injecting a note of pride into my voice. "Every morning before work, rain or shine, I'm out there. It's…liberating."

Her eyes widen slightly, and she pauses mid-swipe, her hand hovering over her knee. "Really? That sounds wonderful, Amelia."

"It clears my mind," I continue. "I even sleep better at night."

"Good for you, honey," she says, a smile breaking through. "I'm glad you're finding things that make you happy."

I nod, a warm feeling unfurling in my chest at her approval, however fraught our relationship might be. There's comfort in these small connections, in the possibility that maybe we can piece together something whole from our fragmented past.

The server brings mom's coffee, and we both order eggs. I catch her up on my new job and how excited I am to have landed in such a fantastic position in the competitive world of advertising.

Once our food arrives, we pick at our respective plates, a diversion from the conversation that hovers between us. Sophia's gaze lifts, meeting mine across the small table cluttered with brunch.

"Amelia," she begins, her voice tentative. "Are you still seeing that doctor?"

I can't help the way my hand stills, the forkful of eggs hovering mid-air. The question isn't unexpected, but it feels intimate, invasive even, coming from her. "No," I reply, setting the utensil down with more precision than necessary. "I'm happily single." Happily may be pushing it, but I'll get there.

She leans in, concern etching deeper lines into her forehead. "What happened? He seemed very smitten with you."

The words, meant to soothe, poke at an old wound instead. I take a slow breath, feeling the walls I've meticulously built around this topic tremble. Something about the earnest look in her eyes compels me to voice thoughts I usually keep buried.

"I don't want to let anyone get close enough to break me," I confess, the rawness in my voice betraying the turmoil beneath my composed exterior. "Not like Dad's death broke you."

Sophia recoils slightly as if the words are a physical blow, and then she slumps back in her chair, defeat replacing the earlier anxiety. She takes a moment, composing herself before reaching across the table, her fingers brushing against mine in a hesitant touch.

"Amelia, I'm so sorry," she whispers, the weight of years carried in those few words, "for not being the mother you deserved." She continues, her voice steadier now, though laced with sorrow. "Your father's death did break me. But not in the way you think. I lost my best friend and the rock I held on to through every storm. But you need to know. I wasn't always… The issues with drugs and alcohol, they didn't start after your father passed." She swallows hard, her eyes not leaving mine. "They were there long before, Amelia. We just kept it from you."

The revelation strikes me, a sudden chill despite the warmth of the café. I blink rapidly, trying to realign this new piece of our puzzle with the image I've held of my mother, of us.

"Mom…" I begin, but words fail me. In their place, a torrent of emotions rushes through me—betrayal, sympathy, understanding—a complex mosaic of feelings that defies easy categorization.

I reach for my water glass. "Thank you for telling me," I manage to say, my voice steadier than I feel. It's a beginning, a step toward something resembling honesty. And maybe a path to healing.

"Amelia, love is messy," Sophia says, her eyes earnest. "But it's worth wading through all the crap for that one great love. I had that with your father."

I hesitate, stirring my coffee. "Have you found it again? That kind of love?" I ask, hoping not to pry too much.

She smiles, a genuine upturn of lips that lights her face and softens the years lining her eyes. "I think so, yes. His name is Ted." She pauses, gauging my reaction. "He's an electrician, makes a good living. He treats me well, Amelia, really well. And he's sober, which…helps a lot." Her voice trails off, but her smile remains.

"That's fantastic, Mom." My heart swells seeing this side of her—hopeful, rejuvenated. "I'd like to meet him someday."

"Would you?" She brightens even more. "Let's plan that for next time."

"Next time," I echo, committing to another meeting, a chance to see this new chapter of hers unfold.

Over our empty breakfast plates, she asks me questions about my work, my friends, and she tells me she met Ted when he was working on the electrical in the church where her recovery meetings are held. It's a sweet story, and I'm really happy for her.

She looks at her watch. "I should let you get back to your Saturday. I'm going to head to a meeting."

We stand, and I give her a tight embrace. My constant worry about her is gone. Well, maybe not gone, but lessened. I'll probably always worry she'll lose her way. That's the life of an addict, but maybe between Ted, her meetings, and other support, she'll find a path.

"I'll find out Ted's schedule and text you to meet for dinner, or maybe you can come over to our place," she says.

"I'd like that."

She waves as she heads the opposite direction of my bus stop.

After a few minutes, I step onto the bus, finding a seat by the window. The engine hums beneath me, lulling me into reflection as we trundle past familiar streets. I can't help but smile, replaying the lunch in my mind, buoyed by the sight of my mother's newfound happiness.

As the bus passes Mercy Hospital, my thoughts drift unbidden to Kent, the memories of his warm laugh and gentle eyes surfacing from where I'd tucked them away. What's he doing now? Does he ever pass by here and think of me?

I shake my head. Today is for optimism, I guess, and for second chances—for my mom and maybe for me. With each turn of the wheels, I feel a little lighter, a little more ready to embrace whatever comes next.