“What’s wrong, MiaSophia?” Her mother had asked when Mia wandered into the craft room one day while home on a rare winter break.
“Nothing,” Mia replied as she took a seat near the ironing station.
Her mother continued sewing on a vintage Singer Featherweight machine, the constant whirring of a needle punching into fabric.
“How’s the new quilt coming?” Mia was never interested in quilting. Still, she appreciated the hobby and the soft calming rhythms which came with it.
Her mother removed the square from the machine and pulled the new pieces apart to inspect the accuracy of her design. “Fine. I just have another few blocks left to do before I can start putting them together for my quilt top. Did you want to do something today? You’re up early.”
“No, I’m okay.”
A steady hand slipped more fabric under the presser foot. “Are you excited about going back to school in a few days?”
Mia claimed a red tomato pincushion from the ironing board and pulled out random straight pins before jabbing them in again. “I guess.”
The sewing machine activity stopped. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Mia insisted.
“You’re getting fidgety, and you seem like you want to talk. Just tell me what’s on your mind.”
She sighed. “Mom…” But Mia couldn’t bring herself to continue.
“Okay, now you’re making me nervous. Are you about to drop some bad news?”
“No, no bad news. I just… Do you ever feel like you don’t know what you’re doing?” A more foolish question never came out of Mia’s mouth, but what she was feeling didn’t seem normal. This uncertainty couldn’t be right. Maybe, with assurances, everything would line up in a perfect row again.
“Of course, Mia. Everyone feels like that. I felt like that for years after you were born.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Everyone must feel it from time to time.” She jabbed another straight pin into the tomato.
Her mother propped an arm on top of her sewing machine, resting her head against a hand. “Is this about school?”
“I don’t know…maybe—it’s just my interest in political science…what if it isn’t what it used to be?”
“I’d say grad school is probably not going to be very fun for you then.”
Mia pressed her face onto the surface of the table in front of her and groaned.
“How long have you felt this way?” her mom asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, what would you like to do?”
Mia turned her head toward the wall, the pinprick of tears stunned her eyes. “I don’t know,” she stated with impatience, hoping to distract from the emotions which were threatening to surface. As a person who liked being anchored, the vast abyss of having nothing to grasp onto placed a heavy feeling of fear inside her.
“Have you talked to your father about this?”
“No,” came Mia’s soft answer.
“You know your dad isn’t going to like this news.”
“I know. It’s just all the money—”
“I don’t care about that. I want you to be happy. Going to school is not just about the education and career. You need to figure out what you want.”
“Please don’t say anything to him.” She brushed the emerging tears away with her fingertips and cleared her throat. “I’m fine. I just—It’s just a moment of nerves. Sometimes it can be overwhelming. I’m sure that’s all it is.”
