I’ve had it. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“With me?” She looks affronted. “Nothing.”
“Nothing? You think there’s nothing wrong with you?”
“No.”
“Your husband, Willa’s father, dies. You move a week later and never speak to your daughter again? You––”
“I’ve spoken to her.”
“You get married and don’t invite her to the wedding. You ignore her. How do you think that makes her feel? She loved you. She told me you were her best friend.”
“She…” Her eyes water. “She did?”
“Yes.” But you don’t deserve that title anymore, woman.
“A mother can’t be a best friend. It’s not her job.”
That was a weird way of saying that. Like she’s talking in general terms, not personally. “You need help. Counseling.”
“I beg your pardon.”
You should beg my pardon. “Get some help. Then you’d better pray someday your daughter will give you another chance.”
“Look.” She stands. “I just came by to say hello.”
“Hello.” I walk to the door and pull it open. “Goodbye.”
* * *
I findWilla in the laundry room of her building. She’s sitting on the floor in the corner, her knees up, arms wrapped around them, her head down. I know she’s crying. How could she not be?
Without a word, I step to her, sit beside her, and pull her onto my lap. I don’t ask her to stop, I don’t ask her anything. I’m just present. Holding my sweet, gentle, funny, smart, and genuinely beautiful girl. My heart breaks for her. She lost both of her parents that day.
I’m not sure how long we sit like this. I know several people have come and gone to do laundry. Several eyed us strangely, but I don’t care. She stopped crying at some point but still hasn’t spoken. She’s kept her head on my shoulder as I stroked her back and hair.
“Is she gone?” are the first words out of her mouth.
“Yes.”
“Okay.” Willa uncurls from her ball, and the two of us get up onto our feet. Taking her hand, I lead us back up to her apartment. The minute we get inside, Willa says something I wasn’t expecting. “I don’t want to live here anymore.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Our eyes meet, and my heart breaks again. Her beautiful eyes are red, swollen, and so very sad. “I’m ready to move on.”
I hope she means with me.
“All right. Where would you like to live?”
“Paris.”
“Paris?”
