Page 4 of Atlas & Miles
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I ordered Thai food then started setting up the wireless internet I’d ordered from my phone carrier. But technology and I rarely got along, and for some godforsaken reason, the damnthing wasn’t working. So I opened my favorite task app, found a local handyman who could come out Monday afternoon to fix it, and booked the time slot. I supposed I could live without internet until then.
Ansonhadbeen right, of course. After eating dinner from takeout containers while streaming my favorite makeover show on my phone, unpacking what I needed to sleep comfortably and making my bed, then taking a shower and getting a decent night’s sleep, I felt almost human again.
I spent the next morning unpacking a few more boxes before getting ready for lunch—what she and everyone we knew called “Sunday dinner,” a perk of living in the Bible Belt—with my momma, and my stomach fluttered with anticipatory butterflies as I dabbed on some makeup. I hadn’t come home for the holidays last month; I’d been too depressed about the turn my life had taken and couldn’t stomach faking Christmas joy when my life was such a mess. At the time, I’d already filled Momma in on everything, and she’d found me the job I had now moved here for. But I had refused to ruin her holidays, too, so I hadn’t seen her in over a year.
I wassoexcited to see her.
My momma had gotten knocked up by a cheating bastard who’d left her the moment she told him she was pregnant. She’d never discouraged me from talking about him as a kid and had answered the few questions I’d asked, but I’d never had the desire to know who he was.
As she told it, she hadn’t shed a single tear over the asshole, instead focusing on the career she’d been building. She’d started as a receptionist in a law office in Gomillion and worked her way up to a paralegal while raising a kid by herself. She didn’t make a ton of money even now—perks of a small town—but she was “managing just fine,” as she assured me repeatedly.
When I pulled up in front of her house at eleven fifty-five, I’d barely managed to park the car before her royal-blue front door flew open and my momma came barreling out of the house. I scrambled to exit the vehicle so I could catch her before she slammed into the side of my car, scooping her tiny frame up in my arms and lifting her off the ground in a giant hug.
“Atlas, baby!” she screamed in my ear, and I winced even as I squeezed her tighter. All but the tiniest inkling of my anxiety about the move here melted away as we held each other in the January sun, an icy breeze swirling around us that we both ignored.
“Hi, Momma,” I replied, setting her down. I wasn’t tall by any means, but my mother was several inches shorter than me. She gazed up at me like I hung the moon as she placed a palm against my cheek, her fingertips brushing the bottom of my large sunglasses.
“Oh, Atlas, my sweet child, I’m so glad to see you!” She grinned, her chin-length silver hair—which was largely strawberry-blonde the last time I saw her—blowing in the breeze. “Come in, come in! You have to tell me all about your trip here! How are things going with the move? Are you excited about your new job? Come inside!”
I chuckled as I reached into the car to grab my keys and phone. Then I locked the doors with the key fob as I trailed her into the house. She was still rambling about nothing and everything, and I suddenly remembered where I got it.
She led me to the kitchen at the back of her house where she had a small two-seater table already set for Sunday dinner. Motioning to the far chair, which I took, she busied herself with what I assumed was her putting the last few touches on our meal.
“Can I help?”
She tsked at me as she set a large bowl full of salad on the table, off to the side. I spied a potholder in the middle then, and a quick sniff of the air told me she’d probably made the absolute best entrée in the wor—
Momma set a glass serving dish full of steaming lasagna on the potholder with oven mitts and beamed at me. “Your favorite!”
I smirked then made a show of breathing it in. “Ohhh,” I all but moaned, drawing out the word. “It smells delicious, Momma, thank you.”
Her hand cupped my jaw again, and I smiled at her warmth. God, how I’d missed this. Missed her. “You are so welcome, baby.”
She dropped to the wooden chair across from mine, and I widened my smile when she caught my gaze.
After a moment spent just staring at me, she shook off her wistful look and picked up the plastic spatula I hadn’t noticed lying on the table. “Here, honey, hold up your plate.”
Another smile played at the corners of my mouth as I did what I was told. Once a mother, always a mother. She’d probably always dish out the amount of food she wanted me to have, even when I was eighty. “Thanks, Momma.”
She grinned again as she served herself then poured us both a glass of what I knew was sweet tea, a staple in my mother’s house. My teeth already hurt thinking about how sweet it would be, but I’d hydrate when I got home. “Of course, baby. Now, before you tell me all about your trip here, what are your pronouns right now?”
I nearly teared up at her easy acceptance, though it had been this way almost from the beginning. She’d taken a minute to wrap her head around the change, but then she’d done a ton of research, and we’d had a bunch of hard, honest conversations so she understood how my gender presented for me—which could change moment to moment or stay the same for days. We’dfallen into an easy acceptance I hadn’t known I’d longed for really quickly.
I was so grateful for my momma.
“He/they, so either pronoun is fine.” It had taken me some time to get comfortable with never really knowing what pronouns would feel right in any given moment or situation, and they varied based on my level of comfort with the people I was around, too. Most people used he/him. Despite my sometimes femme wardrobe and almost always fabulous makeup, that’s usually what people assumed, and that was fine. He/they or they/he was for when I wasn’t completely sure and didn’t have a strong preference—and I listed the slightly more prominent one first—though as I got older, I found I’d started leaning more toward one or the other. Lately, he/him felt like me more often, but they/them fit best for the days I liked to present a little more femme. Those closest to me usually asked.
In any case, I preferred gender-neutral terms over gendered, masculine terms like “man” and “guy”—except Daddy. So many in the community viewed that word as separate from a person’s gender, and I vehemently agreed.
Any he, she, or they could be a Daddy.
She patted my hand. “Okay, now, your trip. What did you see?”
As we ate, I relayed the highlights of my solo road trip out here. Though it was a little lonely, I’d enjoyed my week-long drive through some beautiful parts of the country. I’d taken my time and stopped at a few tourist spots along the way, even picking up a 3D magnet from Navy Pier for her, which I pulled out of my pocket and slid across the table to her.
“To add to your collection,” I said, nodding at her magnet-covered fridge. Her eyes lit up like I’d given her a thousand dollars.
