Kept by Sally Bradley

something to her as the applause wore on, and she managed a teary smile before heading back to her seat, her boys still standing, still clapping.
    The story was clear. A single mom—abandoned by some waste of a man—working alone to provide for her kids. How awesome that those boys realized what she was doing.
    How she wished she and Wade and Zane had done the same.
    How she wished Mom were here so she could make up for it.
    The tingle in her nose spread beneath her eyes. Tears dribbled down her cheeks. From the corner of her eye she caught Garrett do a double take.
    She had to get out of there.
    She grabbed her purse and stepped past the long legs he slanted out of her way. How lucky that they’d sat in the back.
    The foyer was empty. She sagged against a wall, and the tears won. Her shoulders shook. Four long years without her mom, and some days it felt like it had just happened. She turned her back to the doors as emotion poured out of her.
    Mom.
    She was so alone.
    She sucked in air between silent sobs. It had been months since she’d missed her mom this badly. Why had she ever come with Tracy?
    A large hand settled on her shoulder. Startled, she turned and, through her tears, saw the tall, tall man beside her. Dillan . He’d left the auditorium for her?
    She buried her face in his chest and let the tears run. His long arms tentatively held her, and she let herself cry.
    Wait. Two arms?
    She struggled for some sort of control, the man’s cologne penetrating her runny nose.
    His arms released, and she stepped back, embarrassed to have flung herself at—
    Garrett stood before her, awkward concern etched across his face. “You okay?”
    She shook her head, panic flashing through her. How could she have mistaken Garrett for Dillan? She couldn’t look at him. “I’m sorry.” She wiped her face, feeling the makeup smear beneath her eyes. “I need to leave.”
    “Miska?” Tracy’s voice sounded from a side entrance. She hurried to Miska and flung her arms around her, fingers tangling in her hair. “Oh my goodness, honey. What’s wrong?”
    Tears pushed for release.
    “I think it was too much,” Garrett whispered. His voice quieted further. “The mom stuff.”
    “Honey, I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think about it being Mother’s Day.” Tracy pulled back and peered into her face. “You want me to take you home?”
    Home was where Mom was. But Miska nodded. Anywhere but here.

Chapter Eleven
    The smell of tomato and garlic permeated the restaurant. While the waitress filled Dad’s plate a second time, Miska noted all the families celebrating at Lou Malnati’s.
    “Another piece, Miska?” Dad asked.
    “No, thank you.”
    The waitress left.
    “Don’t get me wrong, Dad.” Saying that still felt strange. “I love Lou’s pizza, but if I were a mom, I wouldn’t celebrate Mother’s Day here.”
    He chuckled. “Where would you go?”
    “Somewhere quiet and dark. Someplace where you’d need a babysitter.”
    “Which is how you end up with another baby for the sitter. Have a man in mind?”
    She shrugged.
    “If you’re single, it can’t have been for long.”
    “What’s that mean?”
    “It means you’re a Tomlinson. A Petrosian, really.”
    “A what?”
    “Peh-trow-zhee-en. It’s the Armenian in you. Petrosian women are never lonely long.”
    “I’m Armenian?”
    He sent her a puzzled look. “What did you think you were?”
    “Mom was Dutch, Irish, English, and German. So Dutch, Irish, English, and German.”
    “Not me. I’m Armenian and Hungarian.”
    She sank back in her chair. Did she even know where Armenia was? “Wait. Explain how we ended up with an English surname.”
    “My grandfather was first-generation Hungarian American. His name was Tamas.”
    “Tuh what?”
    “Tuh-mosh. He hated it—it marked him as an immigrant. So he changed it. Tamas became Tomlinson.”
    “But Tomlinson is a real name. I did a report on it in middle school.”
    He smiled over his forkful of