Chapter 82 The Visit
Crew's POV,
My mom's plane landed at 3 PM on a Wednesday, and I was so nervous I got to the airport forty-five minutes early.
Harper came with me, sensing I needed the support even though I hadn't said it out loud.
"You're bouncing your leg," she observed from the passenger seat. "You only do that when you're anxious."
"I'm not anxious."
"You're terrified. It's okay. She's your mom. This is a big deal." She grabbed my hand. "She's going to love me. And she's going to be proud of you. Stop spiraling."
"What if she can tell I'm faking it? What if she sees through the recovery act?"
"It's not an act. You're 108 days clean. You're doing the work. There's nothing to see through." Harper squeezed my hand. "And even if you are struggling—which is normal—she's your mom. She loves you. She's not here to judge you."
We parked and made our way to arrivals. I checked my phone obsessively, tracking her flight status even though I knew it had already landed.
Then I saw her.
Diane Lawson. Fifty-two years old, graying brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing jeans and a Minnesota Wild sweatshirt, pulling a small suitcase behind her. She looked exactly the same as always. Tired. Strong. Happy to see me.
"Crew!" She dropped her suitcase and hugged me hard. "Look at you. You look so healthy. So good."
"Hi, Mom." I hugged her back, suddenly twelve years old again. Safe. "This is Harper. My wife."
Harper extended her hand but my mom pulled her into a hug instead. "I don't shake hands with family. It's nice to finally meet you properly, Harper. Though I feel like I know you already from all the photos Maya posts."
"Maya's been spying for you?" Harper asked, laughing.
"Informing. There's a difference. Come on, let's get out of here. I want to see this new life of yours."
We drove back to the apartment, my mom asking a million questions. How's the team? How's the apartment? How's recovery? How's married life? Harper answered most of them because I was focused on driving and trying not to panic.
At the apartment, my mom did a full tour. Loved the balcony. Complimented the kitchen. Noticed the recovery books on the shelf by the couch.
"You're reading these?" she asked, picking up one about addiction and athletic performance.
"Dr. Okonkwo assigned them. Part of treatment. Understanding the science behind it helps."
"Good. Knowledge is power." She set the book down carefully. "I'm proud of you, Crew. For doing this work. For being open about it. That article you published—I cried reading it. Good tears."
"It was scary going public."
"I'm sure it was. But it mattered. You mattered. Your story mattered." She turned to Harper. "And you. Thank you for standing by him through all of this."
"He's my husband. Of course I stood by him."
"Not everyone would have. Addiction scares people away. The fact that you stayed says everything."
We ordered takeout for dinner—Thai food from the place that had become our regular spot. Sat on the balcony even though it was cold, just because my mom wanted to see the view.
"This is beautiful," she said, looking out at the city. "Vancouver suits you. Both of you. You seem happy here."
"We are," Harper said. "It was hard at first. New city, new jobs, immigration stress. But we're settling in now."
"How's the clinic?"
Harper's face lit up. "Thriving. I hired an assistant last week—James. He's a PT student. Already making everything easier."
"Good. You can't do everything alone. I learned that the hard way." My mom looked at me. "Speaking of which. How are you really doing, Crew? Not the public answer. The real answer."
I hesitated. Harper caught it, excused herself to go inside, giving us privacy.
"I'm okay," I said carefully.
"That's the public answer. I want the mom answer. How are you really?"
I was quiet for a long moment. "Some days are harder than others. I'm 108 days clean and everyone treats me like I'm this recovery success story. And I am succeeding. But it's hard. Harder than I let on. I don't want to disappoint anyone by admitting I'm struggling."
"Struggling doesn't mean failing, sweetheart. It means you're doing something difficult." She reached over, grabbed my hand. "I know you. You've always tried to be strong for everyone else. Never show weakness. Never ask for help. But Crew, that's what almost killed you. Pretending you were fine when you weren't."
"I'm not pretending now. I'm actually doing okay. I just—sometimes the pressure of being okay feels like too much. Like if I admit I'm having a hard day, people will think I'm going to relapse. That I'm not really recovered."
"Recovery isn't linear. You're allowed to have hard days. You're allowed to struggle. That doesn't mean you're failing." She squeezed my hand. "Have you told Harper this? That some days are harder?"
"Not really. She's been stressed about the clinic. I didn't want to add to her stress."
"So you're both protecting each other instead of being honest with each other."
"I guess."
"That's not sustainable. Marriage requires honesty. Especially when things are hard." She leaned back. "Crew, I raised you alone. Your dad left when you were three. I worked three jobs to afford your hockey equipment. And you know what I learned? Trying to be strong all the time just makes you brittle. Eventually you break. It's better to bend. To admit when you need help. To let people see you struggle."
"That's scary."
"Of course it's scary. Vulnerability always is. But it's also necessary. Especially in recovery. Especially in marriage."
Harper came back out with tea for everyone. She'd clearly been listening from inside because she sat down and said quietly, "I've been doing the same thing. Hiding when the clinic stress gets overwhelming. Pretending I have everything under control when I don't."
"Why?" my mom asked.
"Because Crew's in recovery. He has enough to deal with. I didn't want to burden him with my problems."
"So you're both carrying burdens alone instead of sharing them." My mom shook her head. "That's not partnership. That's parallel isolation."
Harper and I looked at each other.
"She's right," I said. "We've been protecting each other instead of being honest."
"I didn't want you to think I was falling apart," Harper admitted.
"I didn't want you to think I was going to relapse."
"But you're not going to relapse just because you admit you're struggling. And I'm not falling apart just because the clinic is hard sometimes." Harper grabbed my hand. "We need to be more honest. With each other. About everything."
My mom smiled. "See? You're already figuring it out. That's what good marriages do. They course-correct. They communicate. They admit when they're wrong."
We stayed on the balcony talking until almost midnight. My mom told stories about raising me—the nights she cried in the bathroom after I went to bed, terrified she was failing as a parent. The times she wanted to give up but didn't because I needed her. The fear that she wasn't enough.
"I thought showing you strength meant never showing weakness," she said. "But what I should have shown you was that struggling doesn't mean failing. It just means you're human. And humans struggle. That's okay."
"You were a great mom," I said. "You did everything right."
"I did my best. That's all any of us can do. Our best. Even when our best isn't perfect." She looked between Harper and me. "You two are doing great. But you'll do even better if you stop trying to be perfect for each other. Just be real. Be honest. Be human."
That night, after my mom went to bed in our guest room, Harper and I lay in our bed talking in whispers.
"Your mom is wise," Harper said.
"She's been through a lot. Single mom, raised me alone, dealt with more stress than anyone should have to. She learned things the hard way."
"I'm glad she came. I think we needed to hear that. About being honest instead of protective."
"Yeah." I pulled Harper closer. "So let me be honest. This week has been hard. The road trip was brutal. I wanted to use. Really wanted to. And I've been pretending I was fine when I wasn't."
"Thank you for telling me. And let me be honest too. The clinic has been overwhelming. Even with James helping. I'm still figuring out how to balance everything and some days I feel like I'm drowning."
"We should tell each other this stuff. When it's happening. Not after."
"Agreed. No more protecting. Just honesty."
"Even when it's uncomfortable."
"Especially when it's uncomfortable."
We fell asleep holding each other, feeling lighter somehow. Like admitting struggle had released pressure we didn't even know we were carrying.
The next day, my mom wanted to see everything. The clinic. The arena. The city. We spent the morning at Harper's clinic—my mom asking James smart questions about his PT training, watching Harper work with a client, clearly impressed by what Harper had built.
"This is incredible," she told Harper during lunch. "You did this. In four months. Built a thriving business in a new country. That's remarkable."
"It nearly killed me," Harper admitted. "I was trying to do everything alone. Thought asking for help made me weak."
"Asking for help is the strongest thing you can do. It means you know your limits. That's wisdom, not weakness."
That afternoon, we went to Rogers Arena. My mom had never seen me play as a Canuck. We got her a ticket for that night's game against Calgary—good seats, behind the bench, next to Harper and Janine.
Before the game, in the locker room, I felt different. Lighter. My mom was here. Harper knew I'd been struggling. The secrets were gone.
I played the best game I'd played all season. Two assists. Zero penalties. Clean play. Strong play. The kind of hockey I'd forgotten I was capable of.
After the game, my mom was crying when I found her outside the locker room.
"What's wrong?" I asked, panicked.
"Nothing's wrong. I'm just proud. So incredibly proud." She hugged me hard. "You did that clean. All of it. Clean. Do you understand how amazing that is?"
"It's just hockey."
"It's not just hockey. It's you proving you can do this. That recovery works. That you're strong enough." She pulled back, wiping her eyes. "I'm sorry I wasn't there when you overdosed. When you went to treatment. I should have been there."
"You were working. You couldn't just leave."
"I could have. I should have. But I was scared. Scared of seeing you like that. Scared of failing you again." She took a breath. "I'm here now. That's what matters."
"You didn't fail me, Mom. You never failed me. You gave me everything."
"I gave you what I could. But it wasn't always enough. And I'm sorry for that."
"It was always enough. You were always enough."
Harper stood back, giving us space. But I could see her wiping her own eyes.
We went to dinner—the five of us: me, Harper, my mom, Marcus, and Janine. Marcus regaled my mom with stories about me at practice. Janine talked about the partners group and how Harper was becoming a fixture. My mom asked Marcus about his own sobriety journey—he'd been clean for nine years.
"First year is the hardest," Marcus told my mom. "Crew's doing great. Better than most. But he'll have hard days. We all do. The key is not letting hard days become hard weeks."
"What helps?" my mom asked.
"Honesty. Community. Support. Not trying to do it alone." He looked at me. "Crew's good at the first three. Still working on the fourth. But he's learning."
That night, back at the apartment, my mom pulled me aside while Harper was getting ready for bed.
"I need to tell you something," she said. "And I need you to hear it. Really hear it."
"Okay."
"You don't have to be perfect. You don't have to be the success story. You don't have to prove anything to me or to Harper or to anyone." She grabbed my face with both hands like she used to when I was little. "You just have to keep trying. That's it. Just keep trying. Some days you'll succeed. Some days you'll struggle. Both are okay. Both are part of recovery. Both are part of life."
"I'm scared I'm going to let everyone down."
"You're only letting people down if you stop trying. And you're not going to stop trying. I know you. You're stubborn and determined and you don't give up. That's why you made it to the NHL from nothing. That's why you're going to make it through recovery."
"What if I relapse?"
"Then you get back up and try again. Relapse doesn't mean failure. It means you're human. And humans make mistakes." She kissed my forehead. "But Crew, I don't think you're going to relapse. Because you're doing the work. Really doing it. Not just performing recovery. Actually living it."
"How do you know?"
"Because I'm your mother. I know you better than anyone. And I see the difference. You're present now. Actually here. Not hiding. Not pretending. Just being." She smiled. "That's the Crew I remember from before hockey got complicated. Before pain and pills and pressure. My boy. Actually my boy again."
I hugged her. Hard. Like I was twelve again and she was the only person who could make things okay.
"Thank you for coming," I whispered.
"Thank you for being brave enough to let me see you. The real you. Not the performance."
Later, in bed with Harper, I felt different. Settled. Like something had clicked into place.
"Your mom is leaving tomorrow," Harper said. "I'm going to miss her."
"Me too. But I'm glad she came. I needed to hear what she said. About not having to be perfect. About struggling being okay."
"We both needed to hear it." Harper turned to face me. "Promise me something?"
"What?"
"Promise me we'll keep being honest. Even when it's hard. Even when we want to protect each other. Just honesty. Always."
"I promise. But you have to promise too."
"I promise."
We fell asleep like that. Promises made. Honesty committed to. Two people learning to be married instead of just surviving together.
My mom left the next morning. At the airport, she hugged Harper first.
"Take care of each other," she said. "But don't try to save each other. You can't save someone who's saving themselves. You can just love them while they do the work."
"I will," Harper promised.
Then my mom hugged me. "I love you. I'm proud of you. Call me more. Be honest with me. Let me be part of your life."
"I will. I promise."
"Good. Now go live. Actually live. That's all I've ever wanted for you."
We watched her go through security, waving until she disappeared.
On the drive home, Harper said, "I really like your mom."
"She really likes you too. Told me last night that I'd married someone good. Someone strong. Someone who sees me."
"She raised someone pretty good too."
"We're both pretty good. Imperfect. Struggling sometimes. But good."
"Good enough," Harper agreed.