Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 77793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
We had a great month. One awesome month. One amazing mother-daughter bonding month.
And it was good. It was so, so good.
While it lasted.
As soon as I pushed open the door this morning—a nice, sunny Sunday morning—to pick her up to go to the aquarium together, I knew she was gone.
The room is completely empty. I mean, not empty, but devoid of her presence. There’s a note on the table, and I can see it from where I’m standing in the doorway, looking over the made beds and glisteningly clean room. There’s no pink suitcase in the corner like there should be, no clothes strewn all over the place, and no makeup in the bathroom. The curtains are sitting open, letting in all the warm sunlight that I was so thrilled about this morning.
I stand rooted in place at the doorway. I can feel it coming—the boil of emotions that I guess other people would probably call a meltdown. It’s rising, rising up from the hollow in my stomach and rising up to fill my chest and flood my throat with the acrid taste of disappointment. My brain is already working on the list—the I told you so list—I’ve had prepared since the minute my mom walked out the door that first time when I was a teenager.
I told you that you can’t trust anyone.
I told you that this wouldn’t work.
I told you that you shouldn’t have gotten your hopes up.
I told you that she would leave you again.
I told you not to get attached.
But you didn’t listen. Not at all.
The tide of emotion isn’t just disappointment. The bitter taste at the back of my mouth has the distinct flavor of sorrow and ruin. The tears are coming fast, but I don’t want to give in and have a full-on crying fit here in my mom’s empty hotel room.
Because it would be so much better to do it in the car. Alone. In your apartment. Alone. Anywhere else. Alone.
I’m afraid, like most people are often afraid, that if I start crying now, I won’t be able to stop. I guess that’s why people save their tears for more private places. That way, they aren’t at the mercy of having to get themselves together on a timeline.
I ball my hands into fists and let my nails bite into the palms of my hands while I try to suck in a deep breath. I rush forward before I can count myself down and grab the note with my trembling hand. My palm is damp, and even my fingers feel clammy and hot against the smooth, cold paper. My mom’s handwriting, neat little loops, fill up a sheet torn from a hotel notepad.
I’m sorry, honey. This just isn’t for me. Some people can’t be tied down, and they can’t stay in one spot. They can’t be the regular person that everyone else wants them to be. That’s on me. It has nothing to do with you. I want you to know that I love you and will always love you. You might have trouble believing that, but it’s the truth. I know you put your life on hold for me. You never told me that, but I know you changed things up and made it possible. You allowed me back into your life and heart, and I’m sorry to disappoint you. I can’t tell you how sorry I am that I can’t be the mom you need, but I hope you’ll find it in you to forgive me and love me as the mom I am. I hope you live your life to the fullest because you’re worth every bit of giving that gift to yourself. I’ll send postcards. One every month this time, I promise.
I’ll always love you, Sarah, with my whole heart.
Mom.
There’s a huge part of me that wants to cling to my anger and bitterness, disappointment and resentment. It’s hard to be positive and see the freaking light when my insides feel like they’re being jammed through a barely functioning paper shredder that’s tearing me apart at a much slower rate than is normal or acceptable because no one has bothered to call the service tech people even though they’re long overdue.
I stumble over to the first of the two double beds and drop down onto the foot of it, still clutching my mom’s note. I don’t bother holding back my tears anymore. They’re a great ball at the back of my throat, burning up the bridge of my nose, and I let them flow unchecked. I drop the note after a few minutes and cover my face with both hands as I sob silently.
Mrs. Johnson left with Orion weeks ago. I was astounded but so happy for her. I knew it was my own choice, but it still stung being the one left behind. I didn’t blame anyone. I didn’t let it taint my happiness for the neighbor who I’d come to love like the grandmother I never had. I wasn’t bitter at Orion for taking her away from me. I held out hope that I had made the right choice. I stuck to what I’d committed to.