Page 69 of Just Ten Seconds

When dinner is over, we settle onto the couch to watch the movie. They choose Diary of a Wimpy Kid. Dean makes a giant bowl of popcorn, and the three of us settle onto the couch with Amanda in the middle.

It’s a cute movie that the two of them find hysterical. I miss some of it as I take in the moment. I’ve never had this. Not with my mom. Not with Benjamin. Just a simple Thursday night on the couch, watching TV with my feet on the coffee table and popcorn falling onto the couch cushions.

It’s sweet, the way Dean has blankets for the three of us and yet they’re all meshed to make one giant one. He cracks his knuckles as he lets out a yawn and then stretches his arm out on the back of the couch. He accidentally brushes my hair, and I feel it down to my toes.

I settle further into the couch and take a handful of popcorn. The movie turns out to be really funny. Amanda laughs so hard that she ends up falling into my side, her head resting on my shoulder.

I still for a moment.

She’s so comfortable with me. Her tiny body curves into mine in a snuggle. While I want to hold her as if she and I have a special bond, I don’t. Instead, I rest my head against hers and feel the small tear building at the corner of my eye. It’s a silly tear, so I push it away.

When the credits roll, I look over at Dean, who has fallen asleep on the end of the couch. Amanda is also asleep, her head on my shoulder, her arm lying against my belly.

I lift her arm up ever so softly and then move her, so she’s lying on her father. Still asleep yet with his instincts intact, he sweeps an arm around her and pulls her into him. They look peaceful in their little nook.

As they sleep, I stare at them for a moment.

I didn’t expect them to walk through the door of the café that day, yet now that I know them, I can’t imagine them not being around. They’re good people. They’re funny and sweet and so very perfect in every way.

I turn the television off and then the lamp. The light from the hallway is the only thing illuminating the room. I take the blankets that have now fallen onto the floor and lay them over them on the couch.

With a gentle kiss to Amanda’s forehead, I wish her sweet dreams even though she’s already in dreamland.

Then, I place a soft kiss on Dean’s hair, inhaling his scent of cedar and vanilla.

Saying good-bye to the little family, I leave in a quiet whisper.

“I used to be close with my mother,” I tell the group in the third weekly meeting I’ve attended. “She worked a lot. She had to. It was just us.

“She convinced me to go to college and earn a degree in something that would support me even if a man left me. That was her big concern. ‘Men leave. They always leave.’ ”

I tug at the hem of my sweater. There’s a loose thread, so I pull.

“That’s why we don’t talk like we used to. She doesn’t understand why I grieve. ‘What are you so depressed about?’ she asked. ‘You have a few dollars in the bank. My husband walked out, leaving me with a toddler and a mortgage.’ What my mother didn’t—still doesn’t—understand or care about really is that I want nothing to do with money. It’s not important. Not as much as the family that I so desperately wanted.”

The thread on my shirt unravels the seam, unfolding the material, leaving me to look through the tiny holes in the fabric.

“She doesn’t think she hurts people with her words. She believes she’s empowering you. Telling you to get back on your feet and move on. I always admired that about her. Until she said it was for the best,” I stutter.

“Take your time, Mara,” Tracey speaks softly.

I shake my head in disbelief. “I wanted that family with Benjamin so bad. And when I lost it, she said it was for the best. ‘Move on. Forget about the past. It’s God’s way of closing the door.’ ”

My head rolls back as I take a deep breath. A tear trickles down my cheek, followed by another. “We don’t talk anymore. Not like we used to. Part of me understands what she’s saying. She’s a woman with no education who was left with a daughter to raise. She hardened at a young age. There was no one to help her. It’s just the way she goes about it. It makes you feel obsolete. Weak. I am my mother’s daughter. I keep moving on. I can put up a front on the outside and keep going. Where we differ is on the inside. I hurt. For so many reasons, I hurt. She’ll never understand that.”

“It sounds like your mother is protecting herself. While she is causing you grief, this is her way of sheltering herself from the vulnerability. These feelings you are experiencing are raw. No one wants to feel that pain. So, they put up a shield. Many people lose friends and family after the death of a loved one.”

Lauren raises her hand, and Tracey gives her the go-ahead to join the conversation. “When Ryan died, I lost a lot of my friends. At first, everyone was checking up on me, making sure I wasn’t suicidal. When they learned I wasn’t, they vanished. Mostly because I just wanted to cry all the time. They said they couldn’t be around me because I was too depressing. Then, when I started hanging out at the shore again and fell in love with Joey, they told me I was a coldhearted bitch for getting over Ryan so easily. Friends suck sometimes.”

We all chuckle softly because she laughs as she says it.

Kevin adjusts his body, so he’s facing in my direction. “I think we’ve all lost relationships due to the loss of our loved ones. Some people can’t handle it. Some just drift apart.”

“Kevin’s right,” Tracey agrees. “With death comes closure on many aspects of our lives. It doesn’t mean those friendships didn’t count. The chapter in the story of our lives has ended. The important thing is to remember your story is long. And characters tend to make reappearances in the third act. Don’t count them out yet.”

“And who knows?” Lauren chimes in. “Maybe you’ll meet someone new who will fill the void. You have to give yourself the opportunity to stop holding on to this grief and let yourself love again.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “Love again? I could never—”