So this chapter took approximately five hours to hand write as the words came to me, and then another two hours of frantically typing to actually get it ont he screen. It is once again, past my bedtime, but I don't care. I HAD to get this update out tonight. Hope you all appreciate it.

Chapter 23

"Remind me again why I thought this was a good idea," I mumbled to Carlos as he set me on my feet on the front porch of my parents' house. Behind us, Brodie and Lesley stood on the sidewalk looking a mixture of nervous and determined.

I, too, was nervous and also rather shaky. Not only was I about to introduce my mother to her first born, whom I'm not supposed to even know about, but I'd also been standing up practically all morning. I'd made the decision – without a medical consult, mind you – that if I was going to regain the full, functioning strength of my legs, I had to use them more often.

So, with Carlos's ever present support, I dressed, got breakfast for everyone and made my way out to the car, all without the chair. I sat down to eat and put my shoes and socks on, but that was about it. And provided I was next to a wall, or a surface I could brace myself against, I didn't need any assistance walking. My motions were jerky and unstable at times, but chalked that up to my being out of practice. With time and effort, I'd be walking as smoothly as any accident prone woman could walk.

"Because Brodie has the right to know his mother and at least try to understand why she gave him up," Carlos responded, winding his arm loosely around my waist to ensure I didn't fall back down the steps he'd just carried me up.

"Sure," I agreed. "But that doesn't mean I have to be here, does it? Surely he can meet his own mother without my help. It's not rocket science."

"You're showing support for your brother and also assuring your mother that you're willing to listen to her side of the story before judging her actions," he explained patiently before adding. "And also making sure that neither of them kills the other."

My eyes shot up to his as he pressed the doorbell button. "I am?" I questioned. At the same time, I acknowledged how strange it was to have to ring the doorbell. Mom or Grandma were usually waiting at the door for us when we arrived.

"Yes, you are," Carlos assured me. "And I am too."

At that moment the door opened to reveal my father standing behind the screen. He didn't appear too thrilled at first, probably annoyed that he'd been forced from his chair in the living room to answer the door, but when he saw that it was me a grin split his face and he threw the screen door open, immediately pulling me out of my husband's grasp and into one of the his world famous hugs. The ones he reserved especially for me and his grandsons.

"Pumpkin," he greeted warmly, drawing away and travelling his gaze over my companions. "What do I owe this visit to?"

"I was hoping Mom would be around," I admitted, feeling bad for asking for Mom when he was so readily available. Unfortunately, though, I couldn't achieve what I'd come here to do without her.

Dad took my arm in his and lead me into the kitchen where he insisted I sit down. "Your mother has taken to the bed," he informed me, grabbing plates and coffee mugs from their respective cupboards and setting them on the table. "She has a terrible headache."

I tracked his movements carefully, struggling to reconcile the image of his familiar actions with the man I'd seen in the kitchen only a dozen times in my life – and half of those times were probably beer retrieval missions. My father was a man who sat at the dining table, waiting for dinner to come to him. If he had to cook it was on the grill outside. There mere fact that he knew where plates and cups were kept astounded me, let alone that he seemed at ease here.

As I stared, he set a box of donuts in the centre of the table and made a gruff gesture that Carlos and the McKennas should also take a seat.

"Is Grandma here?" I asked as Dad began pouring coffee for himself, Carlos and me.

"No," he said cheerfully as he got to Brodie. "Coffee?"

"Aye, thank ye," he murmured politely.

That was another strange thing. Dad hadn't asked who the two extras were. That was partly on me, I guess. I should have introduced them straight away, but between the surprise of Dad answering the door and the shock of him being so comfortable in the kitchen, I guess it slipped my mind. That and the fact that I wasn't sure how to introduce them.

"Dad, this is Brodie, you're wife's first born child." Yeah, right, I'll get right on that.

Dad's eyebrows drew together in interest as Brodie spoke, reveal his accent and I'd just opened my mouth to say something when Carlos jumped in and saved me.

"Frank, this is Brodie McKenna," Carlos said, gesturing to the man. "He's in town carrying out his father's last wishes. And this is his daughter, Lesley."

"Nice to meed you both," Dad greeted pleasantly.

It was like a whole other person had taken over him. Like invasion of the body snatchers or something. I was trying to recall what he was like when I was a kid and he would spend time with me and Val without Mom breathing down his neck, and if my memory was correct, this was similar.

"Lesley, would you like orange juice of milk?" he asked, moving toward the refrigerator.

"Coffee is fine," Lesley assured him, plucking a donut from the box when I slid it toward her.

"Not in this house," Dad said firmly. "Children don't drink coffee in this house."

"I'm fourteen," she pointed out, like it made a difference. If you were under eighteen years of age you were not allowed to drink coffee on Dad's watch.

Brodie speared his daughter with a look that said it all. "You're a guest, Lesley," he reminded her. "Juice or milk?"

"We have some chocolate and strawberry flavouring in the cupboard if you would like," I added helpfully. I knew they definitely had some, because Mom always kept it on hand for the kids. No grandchild ever drank plain milk in her house, not even Agnie, because flavoured milk was a special treat they shared with Grandma and Grandpa when they visited.

"Orange juice will do," she sighed, slumping back in her chair.

"So where's Grandman?" I asked Dad as he set the carton of orange juice on the counter while he grabbed out a glass.

"She and your mother had a fight last night," he explained, handing Lesley her juice and finally taking the seat beside me with his own donut and coffee. "Your mother ordered her out of the house. I drove her to that crazy friend of hers myself," he added almost gleefully. That explained his happy mood then. Mom was out of his hair and Grandma was out of the house. He had freedom without having to go to the lodge for the first time in an eternity.

"Do you mind if I go up and talk to Mom?" I asked, popping the last bite of my donut into my mouth.

"Be my guest," he said. "Just don't come running to me when you inadvertently invoke her wrath. I'm too old to be dealing with that dragon."

I nodded my understanding, knowing that despite his words he would defend me if the need arose, and stood to begin my shuffle walk out of the room. I'd just reached the bottom of the stairs that lead up to the bedroom when I realised I had a problem. Luckily for me, Carlos chose that moment to emerge from the kitchen. Probably he'd been monitoring my progress and allowing me my independence to make it this far.

"Need a lift, Babe?" he asked, moving so he was ready to simply scoop me up into his arms like he did for the porch steps earlier.

"Actually," I said, eyeing the stairs in front of me. "I think I wanna try this."

"You sure?"

"Positive," I assured him. "Just don't let me fall." I'd been trying to actually lift my feet as I walked, and surely this was just an extension of that. Lift leg, place on higher surface of next step, use combination of leg strength and death grip on rail to pull myself up, repeat.

"Never," Carlos promised. "I'd sooner jump off the roof of the Rangeman building without any safety precautions."

It took a considerable amount of time and a great deal of effort on my part, and endless patience on Carlos's part, but I eventually made it to the top. Between my grip on the rail and Carlos's arm behind my back, the only way I could have fallen down those stairs was if someone came along and shot Carlos dead then proceeded to prise my fingers off the rail one by one.

And then they would have my father and the Merry Men to deal with.

The moment I was on the second floor landing, I was pulled into a firm, congratulatory hug, which lead to a heated kiss, and several moments of dazed panting.

"Bobby's going to kill us," Carlos informed me.

"Why would he do that?" I questioned, trying to regain my composure.

"He was looking forward to coaxing you up the stairs for the first time since your accident," he informed me.

"We won't tell him then," I suggested, even though I knew al the guys would know I'd walked up stairs before I made it back down them. Carlos wouldn't be able to contain himself. I could see the look in his eyes; it was the exact same one he got when the boys took their first steps. He'd been on the phone to Tank immediately after our celebratory dance. Of course Tank, and a few men who were listening in the background, had demanded video evidence, so we'd spent the rest of the evening trying to persuade them to do it again while we pointed the camera at them.

Turns out our sons were camera shy though, because every time we had the carmera ready, they would just plop down on their diapered bottoms, but the moment the camera was nowhere in reach they were toddling away.

By seven o'clock we'd resigned ourselves to the fact that we would have to take the boys into Rangeman for a live demonstration the next morning. Which, of course, got up my mother's nose, because she was supposed to be looking after them that day and she hated missing out on even an hour of time with her only grandsons.

I retrospect I wondered if her attachment to Mat and Edi was fuelled by regret at giving up her own baby boy and then only having girls. I mean, I know I was a bit of a tom boy growing up, but it's not the same. When you have girls you want them to dress pretty and have tea parties, not dress in stained overalls and roll in the dirt.

My thoughts drifted to what life might have been like growing up with an older brother, but were cut short as Carlos pulled me back to reality.

"Can you make it from here?" he asked, hooking a stray curl back behind my ear.

Nodding, I promised, "I'll call out if I need you." And with a quick peck on the lips, I was off down the hallway, my legs shakier than they were this morning thanks to the extra exertion, but my steps the surest they'd been since before the accident.

I made it to the door that lead to my parents' bedroom without incident and made sure to brace myself against the doorjamb as I knocked and called out to my mother.

"Mom?" I said loudly. "Can I come in and talk to you?"

"You've done enough damage," came her weak voice.

I took that to mean she didn't want visitors right now, but eased the door open anyway. As I shuffled my way into the dimly lit bedroom, I took in my mother's position. It was scarily similar to my thinking pose, except that she had a pillow held firmly over her face.

"You know, your body's knee jerk reaction will probably keep you from successfully smothering yourself," I informed her mildly.

Her muffled voice drifted out to me from beneath the padding, sounding hurt and upset. "Go away, Stephanie," she told me. "I'm not in the mood."

Something about my mother in such a state of depression gave me courage – perhaps it was that, with the pillow on her face, I didn't have to look her directly in the eye and risk being turned to stone – and urged me to take three defiant steps further into the room before plopping down on the side of the bed.

"Stephanie," she warned, but the menace that was usually behind such a threat must have gotten lost in the pillow fluff, because the uttering of my name held much less power.

"I just wanna talk, Mom," I told her.

"Why?" You've already judged me."

I let a sigh fall from my lips as I wriggled a little further onto the bed, pulling my legs up and turning so that my back was pressed against the foot board of the bed. This was my favourite position to take up on lazy Sunday morning when I was a child. I'd take one side and Valerie would take the other and we'd untuck the ends of the covers and slip out legs inside so that we were just like Charlie's family from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory with people in both ends of the bed.

I didn't burrow my feet into her comforter now, because I had a better appreciation of how much effort went into making beds, but I did curl my legs under myself and snatch up one of the decorative pillows Dad hated so much and hugged it to my chest.

"I take it Grandma told you?" I asked once I was settled.

"She doesn't understand," Mom moaned into the pillow. "She never listens."

Blinking rapidly at that statement, I had to quickly bite back a "Now you know how I feel," before it managed to slip out. This wasn't about me. It was about trying to understand the way my mother's mind worked. God knows I'd probably bitten off more than I could chew, but I had to at least try, right? For Brodie's sake?

"Why don't you explain to me then?" I suggested, hating the way the words tasted. I didn't like this role reversal business.

"You never listen either!" She exclaimed, dropping her hands to her sides, complete with the pillow. She raised her head to spear me with the hard glare I'd come to expect from her. "How many times did I ask you to get a real job before you married Carlos?" she pointed out.

"How many times did I try to explain that I enjoyed the work I was doing?" I countered.

Rolling her eyes, she let her head drop back and muttered, "Getting in that accident was probably the best thing that ever happened to you."

"What?!" I demanded, tossing the pillow I held aside as I forgot my purpose for being here and allowed my anger to rise. "How can you possibly say that?" I said. "You're my mother!"

"Yes," she seethed, hauling herself into an upright position with her hair sticking out from her head at scary angles. "And as your mother I have been trying to teach you that you have limitations your entire life. I thought you'd learned from the time you jumped off the roof and broke your arm. Clearly, I thought right. You bounced back too quickly. Barely suffered at all. Now you've had to experience the uncertainty of not knowing if you will ever walk again perhaps you'll slow down a bit."

"Like you did?" I spat at her. "You want me to slam on the breaks and live a sad, sorry, regretful life, telling everyone that they're making the wrong choices just like you?" It was harsh, I know, but the words were a long time coming. "I'm not that girl, Mom," I said more calmly now. "I know I'm not invincible, but I like testing the limits anyway."

She gave me a look that said, "Oh, come on," and let out a sigh.

"I'm serious," I said adamantly. "The more I test my limits, the more I realise my limits aren't where I thought they were. Like just now." I paused, making sure I had her full attention before recounting my major achievement. "I've been shuffling around, walking all day. A normal person probably would have left it at least another week before attempting to climb stairs. You know, wait until they're more confident with walking on flat ground and such. But I decided to give it a shot. Sure, it hurt like hell and took a heap of effort, but the fact is, I did it."

"You just decided to try climb some stairs on your own after being home little more than a week?" Mom asked incredulously. My subconscious plan was working, I'd distracted her. "What if you'd fallen? You could have set your recovery back weeks, maybe even months."

"Carlos was with me," I explained. "he supported me the entire way and I'm sure if anything had gone wrong he would have scooped me up and gotten me to safety." Leaning forward a little, I added. "I trust him and he trusts my belief in myself. That is why I felt I could do this. That is why I try new and scary things. Because I know that if I fail, Carlos will be there to help me pick up the pieces and move one."

A long minute of silence passed during which Mom just stared at me and I stared straight back. I knew what I wanted to ask her, the one specific piece of information I wanted to know more desperately than anything else, but I was afraid to put my voice to it and have her lose it again.

"Brodie and his daughter are downstairs," I said instead. Probably, I should have worked up to that little gem by asking her to explain why she gave up her son and why she made such a sudden and complete turn around in her very personality. But my brain was rattled from the argument we'd just had.

"He, what?" she practically screeched.

"He's in the kitchen with Dad and Carlos," I reiterated patiently. "He wants to meet you and allow you the chance to explain your actions."

"I can't" she announced firmly, shaking her head from side to side.

Glancing down at her nightgown, thinking it was the problem I assured her, "He can wait until you're dressed."

"No," she stated. "I can't." She ran a hand through her hair, making it stand up even worse than it already was. "I'm the mother that wouldn't even hold him once when he was born. I just sent him away. He's probably been building up a healthy heaping of hatred for me his entire life. I can't face that."

"Actually, he's been building up a hatred of Grandma and Grandpa Mazur all his life until yesterday," I commented, surprising myself with how matter of fact I sounded.

"What do you mean?" Mom demanded.

So I explained how Brodie's dad had told him that Mom had died giving birth to him and that it was Grandma and Grandpa that sent him away.

"Why would he do something like that?" she asked quietly a few minutes later. "It doesn't make sense."

"I don't know," I replied solemnly. "But speaking of not making sense, do you mind if we take a step back and you explain why you gave him up?" I asked cautiously, manoeuvring myself across the expanse of bed between us until I was leaning up against the headboard beside her.

After a moment of hesitation, she scooted closer and wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me toward her until she could rest her chin on the top of my head. The position was a little more cumbersome than when I was little and she held me like this to tell me stories as a distraction from the nightmares I'd had, but it was familiar and comforting all the same.

"You won't judge me?" she asked quietly.

"Never," I promised, echoing Carlos's statement from earlier. And that was just it. As much as Mom frustrated me to tears some days, she was still my mother and I owed it to her to give her the benefit of the doubt until she explained herself. Judging people got you nowhere.

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