LIMITS
MOLLY
Ihate it here.
Until recently, I always thought this was the perfect house. Charming, full of personality, unique, timeless. Full of happy times and memories and laughter, of family and holidays and love.
Now, I see the cracks in the walls, smell the must of a leaky pipe in the bathroom, notice the foundation slipping. I'm scrolling through social media, too exhausted to read, too decimated to engage. Dad's watching a baseball game, and it makes me miss Grey so much, I feel like I'm going to crawl out of my skin.
I get up, toss my phone on the couch. He's stretched out in his recliner under a blanket looking feeble, old. It's terrifying.
"You okay, honey?" he asks like he knows good and well I'm not.
I offer him a halfhearted smile and nod. "Can I get you anything from the kitchen?"
"Some coffee, maybe."
"Coming right up."
I walk away, wishing I could run. But I find Mom in the kitchen, washing dishes while she cries. She doesn't notice me approach until I put an arm around her.
"Oh, gosh, chicken," she starts, swiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand. "I'm sorry. I'm okay."
"No, you're not. You don't have to be."
She nods, her chin flexing. "I don't even know why. He's doing well, the doctors aren't worried. And you're home. I love having you home," she says sweetly, sniffling, smiling.
I can't stop a sigh. "I know. But I've got to get back."
Her face crumples. "Do youhaveto?"
"School starts in a few days, and I need--" I stop myself before I sayhim. "I need to get home."
She nods slowly, wiping her eyes. "I know. I know you do."
"There's nothing for me to do here. You won't let me cook or clean, and I get it--having something to do makes you feel better. But I'm not helping. You've got all handled."
"It makes me feel so much better that you're here, though."
"I know. But I'm just a few hours away. If something happens, you call me."
For a moment, she just looks at me. Not angry, not accusing. Just…tired.
"I worry about you," she says quietly. "That's all."
For the first time all week, she sounds like my mom. Not the woman who ambushed me, not the one who stood by while Dad tried to tried to pack my bag. Just mom."
"I know," I say gently. "But I'm okay. I promise.
She opens her mouth to respond--
A voice from the casing cuts her off. "You're not okay." Dad's arms are crossed, his jaw tight, looking suspiciously healthy. "You're making a mess of your life."
My whole body tenses. "Dad--"
"Rob," Mom warns, "the doctor said--"
"I don't care what the doctor said." He steps into the kitchen. There's nothing feeble about him now, his color high, his voice sharp. "She'smydaughter. And she needs to hear this."
