Page 89 of You'll Love it Here

What he did never felt like pride. “At my graduation, why couldn’t he just show up for me sober? Why did he have to ruin everything I worked for?”

She presses her pink frosted fingernails to her temples, massaging them in slow circles, like these memories are physically hurting her mind. “He was so proud of you those times. He felt like you had done so much with such a hard time getting there... but he felt very guilty too.”

My mom is stiller than I’ve ever seen her, her body taut with tension. Yet in the corners of her eyes, tears begin to shimmer.

She takes a tiny step closer to my bed and lets out a small breath. “Your dad was a very difficult man. I used to wish I neverloved him.” Now the shimmer in her eyes lets loose. A big, fat tear falls heavy as she sits on the bed. I sit up automatically to put my hand on her shoulder. “I sometimes wish I had given up, but I always believed he would get better. It was always so difficult.” She leans into me as soft sobs escape her, each one trembling against my shoulder.

I try to take a breath as the threat of a sob presses my own throat. “I stopped believing in him, Mom. I didn’t want to be near him; I wanted space. And now I keep replaying his final hours—his finalyears—wondering what I missed. But more than that... whathemissed too. And I just...” I pause, the weight of it catching in my chest. “It hurts.”

It’s like all the pain shatters all at once, and the sobs come rushing out in a sudden burst. I wipe at my eyes, overwhelmed and breathless.

“Mona,” my mom coos, pressing closer into me. “He loved you. He was so happy you were happy and he understood. When he died, he—”

“But Iwasn’thappy, Mom.” I inhale. “That’s the thing. It’s been exhausting, always feeling like I had to be perfect. Like if I wasn’t, I’d somehow prove I was just like him... or worse, that it was who I really was deep down. I tried so hard to be different from the way I grew up. I chased success, control, anything that might finally make me feel worthy of respect. But I don’t want to be that person anymore.”

Another sob breaks loose from somewhere deep inside me, raw and uncontainable.

Mom rubs my back and whispers, “It’s okay.”

I wipe my eyes and look at her. “I don’t want to be that way anymore. I don’t feel like myself anymore.” I stare at my socks, the plain white ones I picked up from Supershops. “And I don’t want it to be the same with us. I want to talk to you and not feel like it’s so stressful all the time.”

“I ask you too much,” she whispers.

Every fiber of my being wants to resist putting blame on my mom, for burdening her when she’s so fragile. But I can’t bear getting this far and not emptying myself completely.

“You’re always... you call me all the time arguing with someone or asking for help that I can’t give. But I can’t tell you aboutmyproblems. It’s like my lifeboat is sinking.”

Her sobs pour out in raw waves. When they finally subside, she nods slowly, gasping for breath like she’s just surfaced from deep underwater. “Mona, I’m so sorry. Parents should help their kids. Not the other way around.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to help you. But when you argue with strangers or blow all your money on something ridiculous, it feels like you...” I pause, trying to find the words. “I know you’re sad about Dad, but your anger with the world. Your grief. I think it would help if we both started talking aboutthatmore.”

“Okay.” She drags her hand across her red, swollen cheek. “I think so too.” She nods like she’s confirming something to herself. “Do you want to hear about the last few weeks with him?”

No, the part of my brain that’s been in charge these last few years screams at me. It’s how I’ve managed to keep myself going all this time—to shove away the things that hurt, focus on what I could control. But the smaller, wounded child in the back of my mind finally finds the voice to say, “I would.”

Instead of going out with my aunt, Mom and I share an unexpectedly amazing burger together. I’m still stuck in those awful leggings and instantly regret it the moment we step into the restaurant. But with every juicy bite and fries dipped in mayo, the world around us fades away.

We trade stories, weaving memories back and forth, filling in the blanks that somehow connect and deepen what we know abouteach other. The hard memories surface, but so do the laughter-filled ones. The ones she clings to most, and the ones I wish I could erase.

As the last fries disappear, a comfortable silence settles between us, a quiet understanding passing without words. For the first time in a long while, it feels like we’re really seeing each other again.

And when it’s time to leave, she pulls me in for a hug.

This time, I lean on her shoulders.

The next morning, post-shower and pre-coffee, my phone that’s been lifeless these past few days suddenly springs to action—the sight of an incoming call jolts me with surprise.

My stomach lurches when I check the caller ID. I hit accept. “Irene?”

“Mona, so delightful to hear your kind and caring voice.” The sarcasm is unmatched.

I wince, knowing I deserve it. “Irene, how are you?”

“Oh, you know. Just peachy. The place I’ve called home my whole life has burned, and now it looks like my insurance company isn’t as nice as I’d always believed they’d be based on their brochures.”

“What’s happening? Are they not willing to pay out?”

“We’ll see.” Her voice tuts. “They’re really trying to find a way to pass the buck, it seems.”