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Remembering my mom sucks. Remembering being happy sucks.
I bite my tongue and take a deep breath, letting my brain catch up before my mouth opens. This is a required skill set
I just want …” She blinks down at the mug in her hands and murmurs, “I want to be happy,” and it’s as though being happy is such an alien concept that she wonders if she used the right word.
“You’re what? Forty years old?” I grimace before I remember who I’m talking with, then prepare myself for the usual you’re-just-a-spring-chicken lecture. Instead, she simply nods. “I’m sure it does feel scary, starting over in the middle of your life. But you have to remember that it’s never too late to change. To grow. To find what makes you happy. I didn’t do it until I was seventy-three.”
It’s never too late to find what makes you happy.”
Shit, my life is a mess.