Her hand moves to mine, and she curls her fingers into my palm. “Nothing is going on, honey. I’ve been thinking about the years I spent in therapy after he left, and…well, some things are finally starting to click and truly make sense.” She looks around the room, then settles on a shelf on the opposite side of the room above the small flat screen she owns. On it are different hand-carved figurines painted in all sorts of colors. “I’ve attached myself to all these things because I’m afraid to let them go.” She blows out an uneasy breath. “I didn’t show it over the years, but your father’s—I’m not even sure what to call it—”
“Disappearance?”
“I guess we can go with that.” She pauses for a beat. “His disappearance was hard for me to let go of.”
My posture stiffens, and my hand slips off her shoulder. As close as we are, this is the first time I’m hearing this. A sense of betrayal worms its way into my head, making it difficult for me to form words. Why is she only telling me this now?
“Long story short,” she mutters, “I can’t attach myself to inanimate objects just because the person I chose to be my partner in life, well…”
“Left?” I can’t help when the word comes out clipped and backed with bitterness. I toss the envelope onto the coffee table and rise to my feet.
“Mackenzie,” she says in a gentle warning. “I’m not saying all of this to reopen wounds for you. You don’t need to rehash this with me.” She looks down at the box she dug out from the spare room. “I should have saved this for another day. I woke this morning wanting to act and wasn’t thinking about how you might feel walking into this.”
I shake my head. “Why are you telling me this now? Why didn’t you share that it was hard for you before?”
This is my mother. The woman who raised me and went without, so I could have what I needed. It’s like my heart is readying for war to protect my mother’s innocence and happiness—even though he stole it from her and ripped it to shreds after what he did.
He doesn’t deserve this sort of reaction from either of us.
But here we are. Left with baggage no one else understands or wants to pick up because of him.
She scoffs and rubs her open palms on her pants. “You had a hard enough time on your own, Mackenzie. I wasn’t going to pile it on. I’m your mother; I’m supposed to take on your pain, not the other way around.”
“I could have handled it,” I tell her, twisting to look at her and crossing my arms. “I would do anything for you.”
She smiles appreciatively and stands. In a flash, she’s in front of me, holding my cheeks in her hands like she used to do when I was little and freaked out over a scraped knee. “And I for you, honey, but we were given separate battles to wrestle. This one just so happens to be mine.” She pats my cheek lightly. “I don’t want you upset all day. I’m going to put that box away and check on dinner. We’ll sit down and eat and talk about what’s going on with you.” She pulls away to gather the box and tucks it next to the end table. “Come sit at the table while I serve dinner for us.” She sighs in relief when we make it into the kitchen. “You never did tell me what Mason is up to.”
My body pulsates with shame from her sudden revelation of having a tough go of it all these years—aside from the obvious hardships after divorce—and never having put two and two together. I should have known her abundance of belongings came from an unsettled dilemma, but I’ve been too focused on my own issues. The thought is upsetting. How the hell did I truly not notice?
“He’s, uh,” I stumble over my words, still affected by the last few minutes to even think about Mason. I blink away the fog and swallow down the uneasiness. “He’s moving.”
Mom lifts the lid on the slow cooker, releasing an aroma of savory meat to filter through the kitchen. “Moving?”
“He was promoted,” I tell her, worrying my bottom lip as I slip into one of the kitchen chairs. “He’s moving to Texas.”
She scoops meat and vegetables onto a plate over bread, and my mouth starts salivating. Blankets of steam puff up from her classic roast recipe. I’m taken back to my childhood when we’d spend winter weekends snuggling on the couch eating this very same recipe while watching old, black and white movies. Suddenly, our debacle in the living room isn’t so weighty. As usual, my mother and I forgive each other without getting into the details. It’s not that our conversation gets swept under the rug, but more so that we have a silent understanding. Also, we care too much about each other to fight over a situation we can’t change.
“Are you sure we’re talking about the same Mason? The one I know would never leave you and Luke.” She slides a plate in front of me. “You want a glass of water? I got a new filter that makes the tap water taste like that fancy, bottled stuff.”
“Yes, please.” I start shredding the meat on my plate as soon as she turns back to the sink. “And yes, I’m sure. He’s leaving in about two months.”
She shakes her head as if she can’t believe it. “I always thought he’d…”
I chance a glimpse at her as the first bite of roast melts in my mouth. “You thought what? By the way, this is as amazing as always.”
She smiles sheepishly. “Oh, nothing, honey. I miss him and Luke. Promise you’ll bring him by before he goes. I want to see that handsome face of his before he’s off to bigger and better things.”
At that my stomach drops. The roast doesn’t taste as good as it did a minute ago. Not when reality makes a home in the center of my chest, and I’m reminded—once again—of the turmoil I’m in when it comes to the boy I grew up with.
It’s evident that Mom notices the change in emotion as soon as she sits across from me. “You okay, honey? You look pale. You sure the food is okay?”
“Oh, yeah, um, delicious.” I tack on a fake smile to play off my sudden shift in mood, but I don’t know why. Della Jones knows all my facial expressions, including what they all mean. “I forgot to finish something at work before I left earlier, but it’s fine. I’ll do it on Monday.”
She gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe me. Damn mother’s intuition. “How do you feel about Mason leaving? I can’t imagine it’ll be easy.”
For a normal person, it would be. But for me—someone who knows what it’s like to be left behind—well, it only adds to my stress.
“I’m not thrilled about it, Mom.”