“I wouldn’t dare,” I whisper, stuffing my hands in my pockets as I hustle to join her.
Nothing can stop me from following her toward the ice cream shop. And it’s definitely a date.
A feeling beyond what I could predict infiltrates the deepest part of my chest, assuring me that tonight might just be the start of something new.
Something great.
CHAPTER EIGHT
cove
“If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain.”
Emily Dickinson
“Mom?”
“In here, honey. Excuse the mess.”
Mess is an understatement. Anxiety attacks me just looking around the inside of my childhood home. The home I know means more than anything in this world to my mom.
It’s just an ordinary house.
But to Mom and me, it’s our refuge. The home she bought when my father first left us, and the home she’s lived in ever since. It feels different than it did last week without her in it.
From the outside looking in, it’s the typical Mediterranean style you find all over South Florida. The exterior is a warm tan with a rust-colored tileroof. Blue, white, green, and burnt orange small Spanish tiles border parts of the trim, really homing in on the style.
Everything about this place represents my childhood. The memories and special moments my mom gave me when I guarantee her tank was half full. She’s always been selfless and put me before anything else.
I don’t even remember a time when she got her hair done; she always buys the boxed stuff from the supermarket. And she never complained. Never wished for better days. She appreciated what she had, and I’m grateful it was her example I got to admire growing up.
I hate that this is a repercussion of being a single parent and loving her daughter well.
The interior of Mom’s home is what has my heart breaking. I can tell she’s been moving things around between rooms, likely trying to make space and protect what little furniture she already has. Mom has always been one to simplify.
Every spring, for as long as I can remember, spring cleaning was amustin the Davenport household. It’s a tradition even Betsy and I do together—even with Mom’s oldies playlist blasting in the background.
The dining room table, loveseat, and two chairs are all pushed to the side of the living room. Sopping wet towels are littered in piles across the vinyl flooring, giving off a sour mildew smell upon entering. Thankfully, she has the front windows open for some ventilation, but still.
Mom’s been stopping by the house the past week to check on things after work. After relaying how my meeting with Tom went, we spent the entire weekend doing everything possible to salvage any family heirlooms or childhood memories from being ruined. Anything of even minor importance was transported in industrial tubs and sent to the storage unit.
At least until we can get the foundation issues and leaks under control.
Mom rounds the corner of the kitchen, just off the laundry room, with a giant smile on her face.
That’s my mama.Camille Davenport.
Beautiful. Kind. Incredibly optimistic. Her long black hair matches mine, twisted at the top of her head, and secured by a large claw clip. Her green scrubs tell me she just got off work, lacking any downtime before she comes home to all ofthis.
“How was work?” Mom asks, waving me to follow her as she dumps a bucket of dirty mop water into the utility sink. “Have you eaten?”
Her house is in shambles, yet she asksmeif I’ve eaten dinner.
Selfless.
“I’m not that hungry. But thank you,” I reply, grabbing the mop and wringing it out while she refills the bucket. Washing powder and hot water: the two simple ingredients for perfectly clean floors.
Not a film line to be seen.
