I can do new baked good recipes, coupons for comfy shoes,and order the occasional bright-colored cardigan. I don’t do social media.
Still, I always show up. That’s part of the problem. I don’t know how not to show up, even when I feel like my insides have been hollowed out and stuffed with cobwebs. I know she’s missing her dad and worried about me, and if this proves to her that I’m doing okay, then I can manage it. That’s what you do as a mother: put yourself second, or third, or nowhere at all. You smooth things over. Say you’re fine.
She’s already seated when I arrive at the café, wearing a navy blue hoodie with her college’s logo on the front and sipping something that looks more like dessert than coffee. Probably that half-caf oat milk vanilla bean, lavender thing she seems to love so much. I pause, my chest physically aching over how much she looks like us—like him. She has sandy blonde hair, but it’s stick-straight like my dark hair. She has his deep brown eyes but has gold flecks that match my honey-gold ones.
That somehow makes it worse because she’s us, and now there is no us.
“Hi, Mom!” She bounces up, life and youth radiating out of each step as she wraps me in a warm hug. “You look… like you left the house.”
“High praise.” I sit, smoothing the invisible wrinkles from my blouse even though I steamed it twice. My lipstick is intact, my hair is curled, my cardigan is perfectly draped, but inside, I feel like a knocked-over display someone tried to restack in a rush.
I hate that I see the concern etched into her features. That she chose a local college so she could pop in during the occasional week night and weekends, that she’s sitting at a cafe worried about her mother, mourning the loss of her father, instead of enjoying her freshman year of college.
“I’m great, honey.” I squeeze her hand before trying to take a stab at my old sarcastic humor to lighten the mood. “And for the record, I considered making up a headache that I don't have tostay in bed. I also weighed the pros and cons of running off and joining a cult.”
This seems to reassure her that I’m not entirely falling apart, and she grins and opens her laptop. “Too late. Your cult leader is here.”
“I’m not sure how I feel about being online. And I at least need a tea before we start on this. Maybe a little update on your life.” I raise my eyebrows, attempting to look innocent as I try to push the topic back to her. “How’s your second semester going? Are you still loving that art history class? You must’ve hit the Renaissance by now. What I would do to go back to my college days and listen to a lecture about Artemisia Gentileschi. Her Judith makes all the Caravaggios look tame. And don’t even get me started on Botticelli—Primaverastill makes me tear up if I think about it too long.”
“Nice try, Mom.” Harper rolls her eyes, clearly seeing right through me. “And here’s your tea: peppermint, bit of honey, burn-your-intestines-hot. No excuses. Sit.”
I take the mug, hoping the warmth will calm my nerves. “Grief is private. It’s sacred. Not everything needs to be made into a scene, especially on the internet.”
“You’re not making a scene. And I know you’re tackling your grief. You’re healing, and I’m proud of you.” Harper already has her laptop open, the screen cluttered with so many tabs that just looking at it makes my head pound. “But you’re lonely. We’re just making a tiny social media profile. One or two sites, that’s all. You don’t even have to post anything.” Her eyes bore into mine. “It might be freeing to talk to people who don’t know your past, who don’t know you as Dad’s widow.”
I open my mouth to protest, but my daughter knows me too well. Her voice softens even more as she reaches across the table, covering my hand with hers. “So, let’s find a few friends who have lost someone too. No one has to know but you. There are women out there feeling exactly what you’re feeling, maybe a little lost and sad and pretending they’re fine. You shouldn’t have to pretend with everyone, Mom. You shouldn’t have to hold this all alone.”
I cross my arms, knowing I’m acting like a child. “I’m sure there are other women out there with similar circumstances as mine, and they should all be left alone in peace and quiet to mourn and process. It was good enough for your grandma, and it’s good enough for me.”
She exhales, closes her laptop halfway, and pushes her chair back. Before I can protest, she steps around the table and wraps her arms around my shoulders from behind, resting her cheek on top of my head like she did when she was little.
“Mom.” Her voice catches just enough to crack something in me wide open. “You don’t talk to anyone. You won’t try a group. You always text me to make sure I’m okay. You haven’t applied for any art related positions despite you working toward that for years.”
I open my mouth to protest, but she carries on, “Yes, I’ve seen the tab open on your laptop. And don’t think I forgot all the help I gave you sprucing up your resume before Dad died. You don’t do anything for you. You’re still a part of my old PTA and pretending like everything’s okay. And I’m so scared you’re going to disappear. I need you. I want you to have people again. Please. You deserve more than this.”
“I still have people.” I raise my chin.
“Name one person you talk to outside of the women from my old PTA and the occasional nonprofit fundraising coordinator.”
I take a long sip of my tea, pretending to contemplate. “I refuse to dignify that with an answer.”
Harper raises an eyebrow, a gesture that is a mirror image of her father’s.
“I had him.” My voice is a strangled whisper, and in desperation, I gulp another sip of tea, focusing on the way it burns as it slides down my throat. “He was my person. And now he isn’t.”
Her smile falters as she reaches for my hand. “I miss him too. I’m just trying not to lose myself in the sadness, because if I stopand think about it too much it will swallow me whole, and I won’t stand by and let it swallow you too.”
“I won’t let it swallow you.” Every mama bear instinct rises up in me. I’ll fight grief like I fought the monsters under her bed.
“Let me help you, Mom.” Her brown eyes are so sincere, the worry etched into the corners of her mouth.
“Fine.” I throw my hands up in the air. “Show me your… grief internet.”
Chapter Two
An hour later, I’m back home with a notebook full of passwords I won’t remember and a phone that now buzzes with updates from three grief support groups, one meditation app, and something called Widow Wednesdays.
I open my app, adjust my reading glasses, and try to remember how to get to the first group’s feed before giving an exasperated sigh and looking at the instructions I swore to Harper I “didn’t need.” Press the app icon on the screen, enter your login details, pass the two-step verification. Getting into this thing is like breaking into Fort Knox. Finally, my screen fills with an image of a woman live-streaming herself reading a poem to her late husband’s urn.
