Page 80 of Glass Half Full
“Well, are you coming inside?”
I can’t walk away now, so I take the few steps up our little stone-lined laneway and follow her into the house.
“I was just heating up some apple cider,” she tells me as I kick my shoes off. “Would you like some?”
“Uh, sure. Yeah, that sounds nice.”
Here comes the awkwardness, the inevitable reminder that I broke something I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fix. She tells me to head into the living room and follows after with two mugs a few minutes later.
“It looks great in here,” I comment.
It really does. She’s upgraded all the furniture to brand new stuff from IKEA, and there’s a new light fixture hanging from the ceiling. The walls are a fresh shade of white.
“I did it this summer,” she explains. “Have to keep myself busy living here all alone.”
I’m hit with a fresh pang of guilt. She shouldn’t be alone so often. Peter, my brother, moved to Ottawa a few years ago and visits as much as he can, but it’s not much. I should be here more.
I just don’t think she’d want me.
“I like it,” I needlessly confirm. I have no idea what to say. I feel like something needs to happen, like something in me is straining to break free and make itself heard, but I can’t find its voice.
“How are things at the bar?” Mom asks.
“They’re good. We finally reopened. Things are really picking up.”
Small talk. I fucking hate small talk. I don’t know what I came here to say, but it isn’t this.
“Actually,” I begin, as my blood starts thumping in my ears, “I quit. I’m only staying there until they find a new manager, and then I’m leaving.”
“Wow.” Mom sets her cider down on a coaster. “That’s big news. What are you doing next?”
“I don’t know yet.”
She stays silent, and I realize this is far from the dramatic revelation I hoped it would be. I quit my job, and I don’t have a new job. Of course my mother isn’t ecstatic for me.
“I realized it was time for me to move on,” I explain. “Maybe it’s time to move on from...a lot of things.”
“Dylan—”
“I’m not forgetting how bad what I did was,” I rush to explain before she can get the wrong idea. “I’m not asking you or Peter to forgive me. I’m scared to promise I won’t disappoint you again. I don’t know if I can promise that, but I want to try. I’m...trying.”
“Dylan.” Mom’s been sitting on the armchair, but she gets up to join me on the couch. I stare down at my mug until she leans forward, prompting me to look up at her. I can’t read the expression on her face. She almost looks confused. “Dylan, you don’t have to ask your brother and I to forgive you. We did that a long time ago.”
I jerk back on the couch. “What?”
“We’ve been waiting all these years for you to forgive yourself.”
That doesn’t make any sense.
“But you don’t want me to see him,” I protest. “You didn’t want me around Peter after what happened—and you were right to do that. All these years, every Christmas...it’s just so strained. It’s so broken. I broke it. It’s my fault.”
Now it’s my turn to look confused as I watch the tears well in her eyes. “Is that what you thought? You thought I didn’t want you to see your own brother?”
That is the last fucking thing I expected her to say.
“My god, I’ve really failed you as a mother if you could think that for so long.”
“Mom,” I rush to assure her, “you haven’t failed me. You never have. I failed you.”
