Everything isquiet when I arrive home, which means Dad hasn’t finished his shift yet, and Mom is somewhere finding a spot of calm before the evening duties begin. I set my purse on the hook in the front hall and then do a quick tour of the house in search of her.
She looks up from her book as I step out onto the back patio. “How was work today? First week done and dusted, huh?”
“It was okay.” I take the chair adjacent to her. “I think I’m getting a better handle on things.”
“You were always a quick learner, so I have no doubt you are.” She returns to reading her page, dappled sunlight touching her face where it breaks through the maple tree’s leaves overhead. “You’re late back. What have you been doing?”
“Oh, not much.” My fingers find the hem of my T-shirt. “Took myself for coffee as a treat.”
“Nice,” Mom murmurs.
I study her as she turns the page, head tilting slightly to read. “How was your day?”
Her finger traces the paragraph, stopping to keep place when she lifts her head to answer. “Nothing unusual.” The smile ispracticed. Foreign. Something a woman gives to people her husband invites for dinner at the last minute, not her daughter.
I lean left and pluck a flower off the thick shrub that spills over the mossy bricks. The long, yellow petals contrast against my baby blue nails. “Are you going to tell me what the doctor said yesterday?”
A soft, yet labored, breath escapes my mother. She slides her bookmark in place and sets the thriller novel on the table beside her. “It’s always the same message, just in a different package.” She speaks with a sigh. “There’s nothing in my bloodwork. A little inflammation. Maybe signs of stress. Perhaps if I eased my duties.” She huffs out her nose, glancing across the sprawling garden. “What duties? I do little as it is. Any less and I’d feel as though I have no purpose in life.”
“You have plenty of purpose.”
“Do I?” Mom’s rich brown gaze fixes on mine. “Tell me what you think that purpose is, Kyra, because I honestly struggle to identify it these days.”
“Dad would be lost without you.” The line feels weak from my lips, but I’ve never given much thought to it. I’ve been so caught up in finding myself that I’ve never considered that Mom had lost her way, too. “Devon and I need you. Can you imagine how things would be if we only had Dad to talk with about our problems?”
She smirks, yet the mirth quickly dissipates from her tired features. “Sometimes I miss it, you know? The thrill of a big case. The buzz in the office while we junior associates waited with bated breath for the senior partners to bring us all in on the project. But then…” She draws a deep breath, fingertips toying with the tassel on her bookmark. “Then I apply that same pressure to who I am now, and I know I’d never cope. Not like I did when I was young. And I realize that this may not be a curse,but a blessing. A reminder to be kinder to myself. To focus on what’s important—the family.”
“Until you realize that by doing that you leave nothing for yourself,” I say quietly.
She doesn’t respond at first, eyes narrowing as she stares at the bowing branches of an ornamental tree. “Mostly, I worry for you.” Her soft gaze shifts back to me. “If I can’t figure this out for myself, Kyra, how can I save you from possibly going through the same thing when you reach my age?”
“Maybe you’re not supposed to ‘save’ me,” I point out. “Maybe it’s purely about taking care of yourself, knowing that I’ll take care of myself too when the time comes.”
“I don’t know what to do, though. And I’m tired of trying to work it out. Perhaps surviving until it settles down is the best I can hope for.”
Fuck that. I knew little about this stage of a woman’s life when Mom first started showing signs of chronic pain and illness. We’re taught about puberty in school, given a brief rundown of what happens during pregnancy when we’re older and then led to believe that a woman will get moody, sweat a lot, and hand in her fertility card somewhere around fifty-five.
Nobody tells us about the decade before. When the check engine light remains on, the cylinders misfire, and the fuel level is permanently low.
Shed your tears in private and put on a brave face for the family is what’s expected. Get more sleep, eat well, and reduce your stress—all while women navigate what is likely the busiest period of their lives.
This shouldn’t be how it is for her.
I’m angry that nobody else sees it that way.
“What are you doing tomorrow?”
Mom wets her lips and reaches for the book. “Your father has us at lunch with the Briars. And I want to re-pot the pothos. Otherwise, nothing is set in stone. Why?”
“Come house shopping with me. There are a few open houses in the morning. You can head to lunch after.”
“I don’t know.” She opens to where her bookmark holds place, yet doesn’t remove it. “I’ll have washing to do, and there are a few items I’d like to get from the supermarket for Sunday’s baking.”
“I can do that for you in the afternoon.”
She studies me a moment, a slight furrow in her brow as her fingers flick the tassel, and I realize once again how alike we are in mannerisms at times. “What time is the first one?”
“Nine. Then one at ten, and the last at ten-thirty.”
