Page 296 of What We Brave
"My daughter is choosing a life I don't understand." Her voice goes quiet. Not small — my mother has never been small — just honest. "And I have loved people all kinds of people. People whose languages I couldn't speak. Whose customs I didn't know. Whose faith looked nothing like mine. And I loved them. I built schools for their children and held their hands when they were sick and I never once thought,I don't understand this, so I need to step back."
Her voice breaks.
"But with you. With my own daughter. I'm doing exactly that."
The tears come. Hers, then mine.
Great. We're both crying. Over burnt grilled cheese and granola bars and the fact that neither of us knows how to just say the scary thing.
"I don't want to be that person, Laine. I've been praying about it — and yes, I know, you said—" She waves her hand. "The praying thing. I know. But I have been praying, not for you to change. Formeto change. For me to figure out how to love you without needing to understand everything first."
"And?"
She laughs. Wet, broken, real. "And God is being very unhelpful. Apparently I have to figure this one out myself."
I laugh too. Can't help it.Same, God. Same.
"I'm going to get things wrong," she says. "I'm going to ask questions that are clumsy. I'm going to worry about you in ways that feel like judgment even when they're not. I'm going to—" She takes a breath. "I'm going to have hard days where I wish things were simpler for you. Not different. Just... easier."
"I know."
"But I'm not going anywhere." She reaches out. Takes my hands. Her fingers are still damp and her grip is tighter than it needs to be. "I'm not holding you out here." She pulls my hands toward her, until they're tucked with hers over her heart. "You'rehere.You've always been here. And I'm sorry," her breath catches, "I'm sorry I made you doubt that."
I step forward and she catches me. Arms around me, hand on the back of my head, chin on my hair. The way she's held me since I was small enough to carry.
Thank you God. Thank you.
"I'm sorry," she whispers.
"Stop apologizing."
"One more. I'm sorry the grilled cheese was terrible."
I laugh into her shoulder. Messy and wet and not cute at all. "It wassobad, Mom."
"I know. The pan?—"
"You had it on high."
"I wasthinkingand it?—"
"You're always thinking. That's the problem."
She squeezes me tighter. I let her. I let myself be held by my mother in a kitchen that smells like burned butter and cheap soap.
I missed her so much.
When I finally pull back, her face is a mess. Eyes red, hair coming out of its clip. She looks like me. Or I look like her. However, that works.
She cups my face. Looks at me hard. "He's— They're really good to you? Both of them?"
"Yeah, Mom. They really are."
"Reid is..." She searches. "He's got a good heart. I can see that. He's always making people smile."
"He is."
"And Blake." She's slower here. More careful. But not the bad careful — theI'm trying to be honestcareful. "Blake is... not what I expected."
