“That tabloid thing…men fighting—an actorand that one out there… At least the actor has money.”
“The stereotype about lawyers is literally that they sell their souls for money, Mom. It’s, like, a thing.”
“What are you going to do when this fling ends? Or, worse, if it goes on for a while? When he breaks you, and I’m not there to help you?”
“Oh my God.”
“Your father was the most handsome guy in our high school, you know. What did that get me? They leave you the second you get older.” She turns and fills a kettle with water.
I rub at my eyes, at the burning behind them. I want to cry. Her baggage, her issues, have been mine for so damn long.
“You don’t know Jack. He’s good. He’s kind. He helps people. He’s the best guy I’ve ever known, and I’m fucking thrilled to be…with him.”
“Giving the milk away…” She pulls down mugs.
“Okay. You’re not going to change. That’s clear. So that means the only way off this runaway train is if I do. And I’m trying to, I really am, Mom. I’m sorry your life didn’t turn out how you wanted. I’m sorry Dad was an asshole. He bailed on both of us. I understand it hurt. But you don’t get a redo in me. It’s my life. My mistakes to make, my happiness. My decisions. You think I’m a hot mess, I get it. But I’m not. I have an apartment I love. I have a job I’m really fucking good at. And I have a guy…”
I swallow, not ready to confront the swirl of feelings thinking of Jack conjures up. “You always force your unsolicited ‘advice’ down my throat and then play the victim. It must feel amazing to have never been wrong once in your life, because anyone who knows you knows you alwaysthinkyou’re right. But you don’t know what’s best for me. You don’t get a say. Not anymore.” My palms go clammy, and a sharp pain rolls through my gut. “And if you can’t accept that—if you can’t stop yourself from doing it—Mom, Iloveyou, but we won’t have a relationship.”
The kettle starts whistling, an exclamation point on my monologue. My mom calmly removes it from the stovetop and begins pouring. “That’s something to say to your mother: ‘We won’t have a relationship.’ After all I sacrificed. You want to make me feel—” she starts.
I turn to leave, to gather Jack and never come back.
“Wait!”
I turn, staring at her dully. Numbness spreads through me. She looks older than ever. I force myself not to cave. Fail.
“Penny… I—ah… I don’t mean to make it so that you feel you don’t have choices. I just… I worry. It’s fear.” She shrugs and pulls a Tupperware container of sugar toward her. “I’m not always right. That’s the point. I was wrong about your dad. I should have never said anything about his affair.”
“It wasn’t your fault or mine or your age or anything other than he—the individual, not the whole species—was a lowlife.”
“Regardless… He hurt me, you know. A lot. Loving someone and having them do that to you is— I thought I wouldn’t make it through, but I had you to take care of, so I had to pull myself together and… I guess I…” She swallows, the thin skin of her neck moving. “I thought maybe I could spare you that.”
I picture her kissing my skinned elbow and reading me books. I love my mom. I do. It’s a complicated love, a suffocated love that isn’t sure how to adapt to more oxygen. I force myself to regard her without expression. To stay quiet.
“But… You’re an adult now. I can try to keep my opinions to myself.” She tucks her white-and-coppery strands behind her ear, in an identical gesture to the one I make when I’m nervous.
“And… Well, I did the best I could with what I knew. Now that I know better, I’ll do better. Because I love you.”
She swims in front of me, and I blink the tears back until I see an answering sheen in her eyes. I can love her and be my own person. I hug her, feeling how frail she is in my arms.
“Thank you,” I say simply, wishing I’d had the strength to do this a long time ago. Wondering if she would’ve been ready to receive the message then. Hoping that her actions going forward will match her words today. “And… You know unattractive guys can cheat, too, right?”
She laughs and pulls away, swiping at her cheek. “Oh, I know. Kathleen’s husband—you remember Kathleen? She owns the laundromat down on Ocean Ave. Well, how her husband gother, let alone the mistress he was running around with, too, I’ll never know.”
She sniffs. “That Jack seems like a bit of a rascal, and I know girls love a bad boy, but I’m sure you’re smart enough to pick one you can reform. That’s all I’ll say about that.”
She grabs for her tray of teacups. “Maybe when you find a therapist, you can give me their contact info. I can come up and see—”
“We are not sharing a therapist, Mom, oh my God,” I say, exasperated. “And…I’m already seeing a therapist. She’s wonderful, and it’s been helping me a lot.”
“I knew it! I could tell. A mother can always tell when something is different with their child.”
“But if you’re serious, I can help you find someone of your own to talk to.”
“I’m willing if you come visit me more.”
“That! That’s manipulative, Mom.”
