Page 234 of What We Brave
I laugh, and it almost sounds real. "Tell him to go easy. Reid's a good guy."
"He sounds like a good guy. The way you talk about him..." She trails off. I can hear her smiling. "You sound different when you talk about him, Laine. Lighter. Happier."
Don't.
"I can't wait to see it in person. To see the two of you together." Her voice catches, just barely. "You know, I've been praying for this for — well. A long time."
I know exactly how long, Mom.
"All those years of you out there on your own. Country to country. And I know you were — I know you were living your life." A careful pause. The kind of pause that holds everything she's choosing not to say. "I didn't always understand your choices."
There it is. Quiet. Gentle. The ghost of every conversation we didn't have.
She doesn't know the details. Please God, not the details. But she knows the shape of my twenties — the men, the movement, the months I didn't call on Sundays because I was in someone else's bed and couldn't stomach the hypocrisy of picking up the phone. I wasn't wild. Not really. But compared to the traditional relationship she hoped for for me, it was scandalous.
But she never said anything. Never judged me. Well, there may have been some long silences and some disapproving looks, but nothing overt.
"But I never stopped praying for you," she says.
The tile saw goes quiet downstairs. In the silence, I can hear my own heartbeat.
"And now look at you." Her voice thickens. "Settled. A real job. A good man who loves you. Ahome." She takes a shaky breath. "Do you know how long I've prayed for exactly this?"
My throat closes. Because she's not performing. She's not manipulating. She's genuinely happy for me.
Reid —the idea of Reid— is her dream for me.
"Mom—"
"I'm sorry." A watery laugh. "I promised myself I wouldn't do this on the phone. I'm saving my tears for the airport."
"There's no airport. Carlos is picking us up."
"Then I'm saving them for the driveway. The point stands." She blows out a breath. Collects herself. "Anyway. I know the world is different now. People don't always do things the traditional way. You and Reid living together before marriage — your father and I, we understand. Things are different in the States."
This is her being flexible. This is as far as she bends.
"We've seen all kinds of arrangements out here," she adds. Lighter now. Almost an afterthought. "All kinds of lifestyles. We don't judge. We just love people where they are and trust God with the rest."
Love people where they are.
I grew up hearing that phrase. Every church, every mission, everypotluck dinner where someone's choices were discussed in gentle, compassionate tones. It sounds generous. Open.
It means:You're wrong, but I won't say it to your face. I'll just love you and keep praying you come around.
"Laine? You still there, sweetheart?"
"Yeah." My voice comes out thin. So, so weak. "Sorry — I think I hear the delivery truck. We ordered some new furniture."
"Oh, how fun! What'd you get?"
"A bed." I close my eyes. "A really big bed."
"Oh. Yes. Well. I should go. Some of the women are gathering today, and I don’t want to be late. Call me next week? We still need to talk about what to pack — the altitude here is deceiving, it gets cold at night."
"I'll call. Promise."
"I love you, baby. So, so much."
