Page 83 of What It Means To Be Found

A world I now thought of as privilege, snobbery, and shallow interests.

My mother blinked at me as she squeezed my hand, staring at me with wide eyes as if she was seeing me for the first time. As if something was clicking for her, pieces of a puzzle coming together in her brain.

She looked down at my hand, the one that had the flowers tattooed on them and lifted it up for her to look at as she squeezed my fingers again.

“I…” my mother swallowed, “I think I knew I was pushing you away.” I kept quiet, trying to create a space for her to get her own words out. “I think I knew, even before I came home that day to find your room cleaned out, that I was pushing you away. I didn’t want to push you away, but…I didn’t know what else to do.” She shrugged before biting her lip. My mother was biting her lip. A move I had never seen the elegant Mrs. Bane do.

“I don’t want to keep pushing you away, mom,” I took a step closer and wrapped my arms around her, resting my head on her shoulder. I felt relief blanket my chest when she rested her cheek on top of my head, her hands coming up to grip my arms that wrapped around her. “But it’s okay for children to create boundaries with their parents, you know? I still want you to be part of my life, but just let me take the wheel. It’s okay for you to be in the passenger seat every now and then.”

My mother giggled a little, “That’s a cute analogy, Eloise.”

I laughed with her, “I know, I’m super clever.” My mother laughed again and pulled away, wrapping her arms around me instead.

“I am so sorry,” she whispered. “I love having you home, but I will try to remember that you have your own life, too.”

I squeezed her back, “Thank you.”

We held each other, hugging tightly as we let the words that we just exchanged float around us. With each second that passed, it was like a new foundation was being built between us. Each squeeze reminding the other that this was okay, that we were okay. That we weren’t angry or bitter or upset, we were just simply adjusting to what a new normal between us would be.

Finally, we pulled away from each other and casually wiped away some stray tears from our eyes. It was a short discussion, but it was more of a heart-to-heart than we had ever had with each other.

I wanted to break the ice, while also throwing down a white flag. “I met someone.”

My mother’s eyes widened as an excited smile broke apart on her lips. “Do I know him?” she asked. I laughed and shook my head.

“Do you keep up with hockey at all?”

My mother’s brow furrowed in confusion, like her answer should have been obvious to me. “No?”

I smiled, “I don’t either, but he plays. You’d know him if you were a fan of the Ducks.”

“Oh, a professional athlete?” Her eyes glowed with the realization, and I also realized it would take a while for my mother to become someone who prioritized who my partner was on the inside, instead of their occupation or income.

“The fact that he plays for the NHL is probably the least interesting thing about him,” I replied. My mother’s eyes softened at that, and as she studied me, I understood that she was willing to try. That she wanted to try. That she prioritized having a relationship with me over what she was expecting our relationship to be. I smiled as I pulled out my phone to show her pictures, and she responded by pulling out a chair at the table to sit at before we spent the next thirty minutes doing what mothers and daughters did best.

Which was ogling her daughter’s boyfriend, and intently listening while I filled her in on everything that I wanted her to know. Like how Logan and I met, and how I truly hated him for a while. I delighted in her gasp as I shared with her the story of pie-maggedon, and how her daughter had the audacity to act so irrationally.

But then she grinned, like she didn’t realize until that moment how proud of me she truly was. Perhaps I was just being hopeful.

“I’m glad you made him work for it,” she said after some time, “He sounds special.”

“He is.” I sighed, staring at one picture I had pulled up intending to help my mother see what he looked like. We had also accidentally stumbled upon some marketing the Ducks had done this last summer, and my mother and I stared a little too long at one picture of Logan all oiled up and shirtless in front of his team’s logo. He was clearly irritated with the whole ordeal, and his glare at the camera immediately made me laugh. My mother saw me laugh at his expression, before smiling brightly herself as she took in my response.

“You are special too, Eloise,” she whispered, “You deserve somebody just as special.”

I sniffed, a wobbly smile tugging at my lips, “I really like him, mom.”

She grinned, her eyes glancing down at the shirtless Logan on my phone, his pants pulled dangerously low. “I can see why.”

“No,” I laughed, “Not that, though that doesn’t suck, either.” I closed out of the browser and set my phone down on the table. “I just…I’m scared, I think. I haven’t seriously dated someone since Adam, and we all know how that worked out.” I rested my chin on my fist, feeling emotionally exhausted and missing my boyfriend terribly. My mother sat there next to me, studying my face with a thoughtful expression of her own.

“You won’t have your mother and his mother meddling in your relationship this time, though.” I widened my eyes at her, because we hadn’t talked about that specifically, but she still acknowledged the fact that she did, in fact, overstep.

“Are you sure?” I asked, because last I knew, Adam’s mother was still kind of an asshole to Beck. Still bitter that her son picked someone she didn’t pick out herself.

“Unlike Edith Hall,” my mother rolled her eyes, “I know when to put aside my pride. That woman basically has no relationship with her only child now, and I do not want to make the same mistake as her.” She emphasized her words with a swipe of her hand, and I giggled at the relief I felt expand in my lungs at the sight.

“Thank fucking god.” I breathed. My mother gasped at my language and swatted my arm, but I just laughed and flinched out of her way.

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