Ihadmanaged to gather a few things last night, though. Enough to know maybe there’s still a chance.
Enough to know that I have to try.
No ring.
No date.
I’m psyching myself up to finally ask about her when my mother clears her throat, effectively pulling me from my thoughts. Glancing up, I find her staring at me, eyebrows raised expectantly.
Right. We were talking about where I’ve been.
I let out a sigh. “So, you didn’t have Jack tracking me this whole time?” I ask sarcastically.
I’m unsure how to feel about learning he’d been watching me back then.Spyingon me. On the one hand, I feel violated. Even though their concern was entirely warranted, I’m angry they chose to creep around behind my back, watching and waiting to catch me in the act of fucking up my life. I’m angry Jack didn’tconfront me. Who knows what might have happened if he had? What could have been different—
Which brings me to the other hand. It’s kinda fucked up, but I’m actually touched that he went to so much trouble. I know he would do anything for my mother, but I can’t help feeling there was genuine worry for me on his part as well. They were trying to help me. Putting things in place to get me into a program. Given my headspace back then, I know their efforts would not have been well received, but I have enough distance from that time in my life now to look back at it all and wish they hadn’t been too late.
Do I wish I’d been strong enough to resist going down that path in the first place? Of course. But I’ve long since stopped letting my mind wander to that particular ‘what if.’
My mom is silent for a long time, digesting my question—or perhaps the tone—and I feel like shit for giving her any attitude. God knows I’ve likely been the source of enough grief in her life, and I have no right to cause any more. I watch her as she casts her gaze around the room, for a moment unable to look at me. When she finally meets my eyes again, the sadness in hers feels like a dagger to the chest.
“No,” she says quietly. “At that point, it was clear you weren’t coming home. And I knew it would only hurt me more every time I got an update about your whereabouts because it wasn’there, with your family. You had your reasons for staying away, and Iknew I had to let you go. I just prayed one day you’d find your way back. And that you wouldn’t return to drugs.”
I shake my head. “I never did. My only vice these days is whiskey, and the occasional beer,” I promise her.
She nods in acknowledgment. “I was wondering about that. Is it a good idea for you to be drinking alcohol?”
“I know many recovery programs warn against it. That drinking can be a slippery slope for some with drug abuse problems.” I shrug. “For me, it’s never been an issue.”
She opens her mouth to speak, but I hold up a hand to continue. “I avoided it for the first few years after I got out,” I say. “First, because I was still on probation, and then later because I was being cautious. But eventually, I did learn that I could manage a few drinks in moderation and be fine. I rarely drank back when I was using, so maybe that has something to do with it? I don’t know. Maybe there’s a separation in my mind between the two …?” I trail off, shaking my head with a chuckle. “I just know it’s not a problem for me.”
She offers me a small smile. “Well, that’s good to hear.”
I wait for her to look up, making a point to hold her gaze when she does, before I say, “I’ve been clean for a long time, Mom. I’m good. I promise.”
“Youlookgood,” she reluctantly agrees, then shoots me a wry smile. “A little scruffy, but I think I like the beard.”
“Yeah?” I ask, rubbing the bristles on my chin.
“Yeah.” I watch as her smile morphs slowly into a grin, and I can’t help but give her one in return. “But you could use a haircut.”
I huff out a laugh. “I know.”
We’re both silent for a moment, taking each other in. I appreciate her effort to lighten the mood after such a heavy discussion, and it doesn’t escape me that I still haven’t answered her question. There’s something I need to say to her first, though. Something long overdue.
My smile wanes as I work up the courage to finally utter those three simple words.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I say quietly, meeting her eyes once more. I hope she can hear the sincerity in my voice—see it in my eyes.
Sorry.
A word that encompasses a multitude of transgressions, in my case. And one I know will never be enough. Not nearly enough. It’s all I can offer her at the moment, but I’m determined to show her. I’m going to be better. Be the son she deserves. I’m going to make it up to her and to everyone I love.
“I know,” she says again, reaching across the table to pat my hand. “I know, son.”
And then we share another smile, but this one is softer.
And I feel it.
