“Same,” I say. “But no, he was stopping by.” I leave out the with his new wife part. He’s out of her life, and she prefers it that way.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I should’ve asked you, but he just wanted to confirm the address. If I’d had any idea—”
“No, Mom, it’s fine,” I say. “I would’ve told you to give it to him.”
She hesitates. “So, how was it?”
“Great,” I admit. “And then terrible.”
“So the usual,” she says.
“Basically.”
“He’s always been great, for a while.” She sighs. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know it sucks.”
“It does.” Tears well in my eyes. “It sucks so much.”
After a pause, she says, “You deserve a better dad. I wish I could give that to you.”
“You did.” I wipe my eyes dry, but my voice is tearier than ever. “You’ve always been my mom and my dad. And my best friend. You’ve always been absolutely everything for me.”
“Oh, baby,” she says softly. “I love you more than everything else on this planet combined. But no one person can be everything we need. Sometimes I couldn’t even really do a good job at being your mother, let alone those other things.”
“You were perfect,” I say. “You were amazing.”
“Amazing, maybe,” she says. “But far from perfect. Do you know how many school recitals I fell asleep during?”
I sniff. “No.”
“However many you had,” she replies.
I chortle. “That’s like drifting off to the tune of forty-five street cats in heat.”
“I wouldn’t know!” she says. “In my dreams, the fifth-grade class sang beautifully.”
I sink onto my rug, face in my hands, quivering with laughter.
“If I could do it again,” she says, after a second, “I wouldn’t have moved you around so much either.”
“You did what you had to,” I say.
“I thought so at the time,” she says. “But the truth is, I think we both could’ve been happier with less. We were, in that first apartment, just the two of us, remember?”
“I do.” Warmth brims in my chest. That place had thin walls and leaky pipes, but Mom made it feel like an adventure we were setting out on. We were the kids camping out in the Met in From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, or the titular children from The Boxcar Children living in the titular boxcar.
“I was just so scared I couldn’t really do it on my own,” she goes on. “And so many decisions I made were based on the fear of what could go wrong, instead of my hopes for what might go right. Every time that fear got tripped, I picked you up and moved you away, rather than facing the possibility of discomfort. I never took any chances.”
“You were a realist,” I tell her.
“Honey.” She laughs. “I’m a cynic. And a cynic is a romantic who’s too scared to hope.”
It feels like a nail driven into my sternum.
“Is that what I am?” I ask her.
“You?” she says. “You, my girl, are whoever you decide to be. But I hope you always keep some piece of that girl who sat by the window, hoping for the best. Life’s short enough without us talking ourselves out of hope and trying to dodge every bad feeling. Sometimes you have to push through the discomfort, instead of running.”
I know right then what I need to do. As badly as I want to run, this is my mess, and first I have to face it.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say.
“What did I do, exactly?” she asks.
“You’re here,” I say. “Whenever it counts, you’re here. When I grow up, I want to be you.”
She laughs. “Oh, god no. Just be you. The best you. The most you.”
When I get off the phone with her, I text Harvey right away: Think you can talk Ashleigh into an impromptu poker night next time Mulder’s with Duke?
33
FRIDAY, AUGUST 9TH
8 DAYS
Ashleigh beats me into work on Friday.
