“Hey, Mom?”
I know something’s up when her voice drops a few decibels.
“Yeah, sweetie?”
Her voice gets even quieter. “How old were you when you had sex for the first time?”
I start choking when I aspirate air into my lungs too quickly.
Ryder and I were always very open with our children about things. Sex. Alcohol. Drugs. As parents, you hope what you say sinks in, and your children make responsible choices. I’m glad that they trust me enough to tell me things that most teenagers wouldn’t tell their parents, but hearing my fifteen-year-old daughter basically announce without saying the words that she’s thinking about having sex…with Grant…
Dear god. I don’t know if I’m ready. She’s too young. She could be thirty years old and still be too young in my mind.
Trying to sound composed when I’m far from it, I reply, “Seventeen.”
“With Daddy?”
My chest constricts as scabs from old memories rip open. Me and Jayson. Elizabeth Ann. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about her. Mourn the loss of her.
“Do you mind if we table this until I get back? I was just heading out to dinner.”
I hear her sigh. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Noyeah, sure. I promise we’ll sit down and talk when I come home. It’s difficult to have a heart-to-heart with me thousands of miles away on the other side of the world.”
She sounds less mopey when she replies, “Okay.”
“Give your brothers big kisses from me.”
“Eww. No. Gross.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too, Mama.”
Stuffing my phone inside the outer pocket of my wristlet, I wearily sink to the bottom step and run my fingers through my hair.
“Our daughter wants to have sex,” I say out loud, talking to Ryder like I often do.
The weight of being both mother and father presses down on my shoulders as I do my best to navigate the turbulent lives of teenagers with all their mood swings, arguments, and monumental life choices. In times like this, when I don’t know if I’m doing or saying the right thing, I long for Ryder’s calm wisdom and his knack for knowing when to be firm and when to let things slide.
On countless nights when the kids would fight or come home upset about something, I would sit alone at the kitchen table and stare at Ryder’s empty chair, wishing he were there to share theburden of parenthood. How can I be enough for three growing souls? They need their father.
The loneliness is sharpest during our children’s milestones I never imagined celebrating without Ryder by my side. Birthdays, Christmases, Father’s Day, graduation, good grades, first kisses, first love. Some days, I beg him for guidance, while on the hardest days, I curse him for leaving me alone in a world that makes no sense without him.
Ryder is supposed to be here, making me laugh when things get difficult. Helping me through the chaos. Sharing in the happiness and the tears of our children. But he’s not. I’m left with every decision, praying that I’m doing right by our kids and not screwing them up.
Pushing to my feet, I head into the lobby. The woman behind the reception desk smiles at me when I pass on my way to the alcove. I had asked the desk manager the other day if it would be all right if I played the piano sometime.
Nervous jitters skate up my arms when I glide my fingers across the ivory keys. I don’t play as often as I used to, mainly because my heart isn’t in it anymore. My interest in most things disappeared after I lost my muse.
Sliding the small bench out, I take a seat and position my feet over the pedals. Flexing my fingers, I warm up with a simple scale before jumping right in to the song I wrote for Ryder. The one I gave him at senior prom. Several people loitering in the hotel lobby gather around the piano as I play, intruding on my moment of solitude. I ignore them, focusing only on the melody and not the stares of the strangers who are watching. They can’t see my heart breaking as I play the song that I wrote for the man I love.
The final note fades, and my fingers still.
“That was beautiful.”
Jesus!
