“Return them, then,” she says, crossing her legs and looking around the room. “The receipt is in the bag.”
A familiar twinge of disappointment settles inside me. “I don’t mean to sound unappreciative, but you always buy me clothes that you know I won’t wear.”
“Lesson learned. I won’t buy you clothes anymore.”
“Mom, come on,” I say, waiting until she finally looks at me. “Why does it have to be like this? I love seeing you and spending time with you, but every time we get together our talks always turn snappy.”
“You’re the one who gets snappy. I’m just trying to encourage you.”
“Encourage me to what?”
“To improve yourself. To venture out of your comfort zone.”
“But why do I have to improve myself?” I sigh, feeling like we’re going round and round all over again. “You act like I’m some miserable crone wading through a swamp just because I don’t live your lifestyle and dress the way you want me to.”
“All I’m trying to do is help. When you lived at home, you always felt insecure wearing anything that wasn’t three sizes too big. To this day you practically wear the same stretchy pants and sweater every time you come over. Am I supposed to see you struggling and do nothing?”
“I’m not struggling, though. I’m happy with myself. I know eating extremely healthy and exercising a ton has helped you deal with a lot of painful stuff, but it’s not for me. Just because I like to wear comfortable clothes doesn’t mean I hate my body.”
Mom gets quiet and I hope my honesty didn’t make her feel bad. I’ve always used humor as a shield to hide how much her words can hurt. I’ve never been vulnerable with her about this before. Her silence leaves me feeling exposed and nervous and I debate whether I should have said anything at all.
“I only want what’s best for you, Kara,” she eventually says. “I want you to find real love and get married and have a family and it’s going to be so much harder for you to get there if you’re not confident within yourself. Losing your dad made me see how fast life goes by and I don’t want you to waste any more time.”
I take a second and her words sink in, heavy and honest. “I know that you love me and you’re coming from a good place, but your opinion means so much to me. I’m never going to be fully confident or think that I’m good enough until you do, too.”
Mom looks at me and I have the intense instinct to say that I’m kidding, that I haven’t been grasping for her approval for most of my life and she should forget everything I just said.
But I say nothing. Instead, seconds pass by in silence until Mom folds her hands in her lap.
“I never meant to hurt you,” she says. “You and Jen make me proud every day and if I didn’t make that clear, then that’s my fault. I’ll try to do better.”
It’s not often that my mom offers an apology, and to be honest, it kind of freaks me out.
“It’s okay,” I quickly reply. “I’ll be better, too. If I layer up those tank tops I bet they’d look great...with a sweater.”
Her cheeks pull back in a smile and I exhale a breath of relief. I’ve always been terrified of confrontation. If we ever had an actual argument, I’d probably run out of the room screaming.
“And how are you doing?” I ask.
“Me? I’m fine.” I keep looking at her and for the first time in a long time, I see a crack in her steel demeanor. “You know,” she goes on to say, “I have my good days and my bad days.”
“I’m the same way.”
In the blink of an eye, I’m swarmed with memories of my parents together. My dad was playful and my mom was strong. He joked and she laughed. He danced with her when she turned the radio on in the kitchen. She doesn’t turn the radio on anymore.
“How do you do it?” I find myself asking. “How do you recover from losing someone you love so much?”
“You don’t,” she answers. “I haven’t. I just have to believe that I’ll see him again someday, and then all the waiting will be worth it.”
I take a breath at her words. “That’s a really beautiful thought.”
“Use it in your next book,” she says with a grin.
It gets quiet after that but not uncomfortable. I’m about to offer her a cup of tea when the sound of Beyoncé’s “Crazy In Love” starts blasting through the room, leading us both to exchange matching expressions of confusion.
“Is that your phone?” I ask in disbelief, while also being incredibly impressed.
“What? No, it’s not my phone.”
