It was punctuated by an occasional beep. It blended in with a nightmare I’d been having, but I couldn’t remember what it was. “Your turn to get the alarm, Jacob,” I muttered to my husband as I prepared to turn over and go back to sleep for a few minutes. “Thank God! You’re finally awake!” That was Addie’s voice—Jacob’s mother. We’d lived with her for the past few years.“I thought we had this conversation about staying out of our bedroom,” I managed to say, my mouth strangely dry. “What does it take to get some privacy?” Most of the time, living with Addie was okay. Just every few days she questioned me about something I was doing wrong raising our five-year-old daughter, Kate. Or she razzed me about not being the greatest cook in the world. Or she remarked on Jacob’s underwear not being as white as it could be. Okay. Living with Addie was a pain. I wished we could have our own place again. I understood that Jacob loved his mother, and knew she couldn’t run the Apple Betty Inn without him.
