Page 158 of Between the Lines

Mom’s laugh sighs out of her, then trails into surprise tears.

“I don’t even know him. He’s my baby, and I don’t even know him.”

Part of me flinches. I was her baby once. I don’t know if she’s talking to me or Oliver or herself, but she wraps her arms tightly around Oliver, buries her nose into his hair, and inhales.

“We miss you around here, Claire.”

It’s braided with tears, and while Icouldgo ahead and chalk this all up to the heat of the moment, I give my mom the benefit of the doubt.

“I miss everyone, too.” And then, I think of Nathan. Of how he’d helped me to find my own two feet, and reminded me of everything I deserve. “But I don’t miss being treated like your nanny instead of your daughter.”

Her swallow is audible.

“I understand. You’re just so good at it.”

She laughs humorlessly, and I hear the words that have gone unsaid.

You’re good so I don’t have to be.

If I want any semblance of a repair, I need to be forward with her too. If me leaving wasn’t proof enough of my feelings, maybe direct words will be.

“I am. But I never got the opportunity to be anything else. Zoey gets to be good at school and cello, Michael gets to be good at soccer. Why do I have to be good at parenting my siblings? Why do I have to work for Dad, so that my hours can fit your schedule? It’s like you’ve given me no choice: Do what you ask, or live on the outside of my own family. I’m your daughter, too. Sometimes, I feel like you don’t knowme.”

Mom chews on her lip. I notice now that her cheeks flush the same color as mine do when I show emotion. But she nods, slowly, her eyes fixed on the television as Mickey dances on screen. Her next words come out so broken, so soft, I wonder if I’m still talking to my mom.

“You’re right. I guess I don’t.” She sniffles. “Sometimes, I think you’re a better mom to them than I am. It’s just easier to let you?—”

“No, Mom, it’s not. And it can’t be anymore. That’s why I left.”

Our silence times perfectly with the end of the episode. My nerves tingle, both with the newness of standing up for myself, andwith the intrinsic worry that I’m talking back to my mom. I override the latter as I turn to face her. She is ashen, silent tears pooling in her eyes.

“Did you ever stop to consider that, while they needed me, I neededyou?”

It’s the deadening bullet. Her eyes widen like a deer in headlights. The breath leaves her lungs in a deafening exhale. But Harper and Zoey come bounding down the stairs.

“Claire, can we go to Cabot’s? I want a giant ice cream!”

Harper bounces into my lap, and my heart tugs to see her dinky little braids. She’s been practicing.

“Yeah. Get your shoes and we can head out.”

They each give Mom a parting hug, and I stand to leave, following them to the door, when she calls out after me.

“Claire.” I pause with my hand on the doorway and look at her over my shoulder. “I’d like to finish this conversation. Maybe over coffee?”

She looks terrified. I guess in this case, words might have made a louder impact than actions. I smile tightly.

“I prefer tea, actually.”

Her eyes turn hopeful.

“I can make that happen.”

As soon as I’m in the car, Zoey asks, “Did hell freeze over?”

“Language, Zoey,” I chuckle, looking over my shoulder to back out of the driveway.

“I’ve missed this.”

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