“What was that?” Mom asks.
“Nothing.” I kneel to retrieve the spatula with shaking hands. She would never say it outright—she’s probably not eventhinkingit—but the unspoken implication is there anyway.
Mom wasn’t the parent who taught me to lead with my fists. That honor fell to my father.
I can still see it if I let myself think about it too long—him standing over me, telling me that if I didn’t hit first, I’d spend my life on my back. That hesitation was weakness. That control was something other people got to have. I swallow hard, trying to push the memory down where it belongs. I’m not him. I’ve never been him. I’ve spent my entire life proving that. But the look on my mom’s face isn’t about the difference between us. It’s about the parts of me that look the same, whether I like it or not.
The month I turned twelve, he died. No accountability. No apology.
No closure.
I’m not my father, I’m not, I’m not…
“Pretty loud for ‘nothing,’ Owe.”
“Kitchen mishap.” I wipe down the spatula with a soapy sponge. “Anyway, Ma, you don’t need to worry about me. What’s the deal with your roof?”
She sighs. I don’t know if this is commentary about me or about the state of her rafters. Most likely, a little bit of column A, a little of column B. “Oh, don’t worry about me. You know how I get when an unexpected bill hits. I’ve had a chance to sleep on it.”
“Did you call another contractor?”
“I’m on it, Owe.”
“Ma—”
“I can handle myself just fine, young man.”
Thus, we commence another round of New England Parenting: Fuck With Your Son’s Head. Is my mom actually okay? Was she just complaining yesterday, or is she only pretending to be okay now? Does she need help, or does she need to vent sometimes? Literally,who the fuck knows.My mom isn’t passive-aggressive by nature, but New Englanders have a habit of combining the motto of “Keep Calm And Carry On” with the regional twist of “But Be A Little Bit Salty AboutIt.” If my mom’s house collapsed in on itself while she was out at the grocery store, she’d probably say something like,Dammit, where am I supposed to store the yogurt now?
Point in case: “I don’t want to bother you, not when you have so much on your plate right now…”
“You’re not bothering me. I can afford an electrician.”
“So can I, and I don’t need you to fuss over me.”
If I were from any other part of the country, this is probably where I’d scream something akin to,Just let me love you!But alas, I too am a New Englander, so I say, “Let me know if you need help.”
“I will,” she says.
She won’t.
I wish I could explain what really happened in that stupid viral clip. I wish I could explain that money isn’t an issue for me anymore and that I’d rather spend my savings on her than let my earnings pile up in an investment account. That I wish she’d let me make her life easier. That I wish I could make up for everything my father put her through. That sometimes, in spite of everything, I still feel helpless and lonely in this desert city three thousand miles from home.
That some ugly part of me has always wondered if she could’ve escaped him sooner if I hadn’t existed.
There’s a chime on her end of the line, followed by the rustle of fabric. “Oh, that’s the doorbell. Gotta go!”
“Is it the electrician?”
“I’m hanging up, Owen. Take care, baby. I love you!”
“Love you, too.”
The line goes dead.
The silence hits harder than the conversation. It settles into the space around me, thick and heavy, the whole place holding its breath. Three thousand miles might as well be the other side of the world for all the good I can do from here. I stare at thedark screen for a second longer than I should, like it might light up again if I wait long enough.
In the ensuing silence, I turn off the burner and slide down with my back to the cabinets. I can take the yapping of the critics. I can survive a viral video. I thought I would get through this if I just kept my shit together, but my mom’s words keep running through my head on loop:That’s not how I raised you.
