Page 117 of Lily In The Valley
Muted conversationsin the hospital cafeteria echoed off tile and glass. Wide windows stretched along one side of the room, revealing a wintry courtyard outside. Stone beaches formed acircle, empty planters spaced between them, a fountain long turned off for the season in the center.
Kelly walked beside me, her pace unhurried, her shoulders brushing mine every few steps like she was reminding me she was still there.
“There,” she said, pointing to a table in the corner.
My mother sat alone, hands curled around a white paper cup. The wild, curly hair I remembered as a child was pulled up high, secured by a scarf. She looked out of the window, studying the barren cherry blossom tree—its stretched out branches, leafless. When she turned and saw me, her whole body tensed, not in fear, but motherly recognition. Bone-deep regret.
Kelly placed a gentle hand on my back.
“I’ll be back after I check on some patients,” she said softly.
I nodded, watching her walk away. Then, I walked forward, sitting in the chair opposite the woman who birthed me. For a second, we didn’t speak. Just stared at each other, mirror images.
“You want some coffee?” she asked.
“No. I’m good.”
Silence. The kind stitched with old wounds and too many words that never made it out.
“You look good,” she started. “Part of me was nervous you’d change your mind about coming.”
“Then you don’t know me at all,” I said through my teeth. I swiped at my nose and looked out at the courtyard.
She nodded once. “That’s fair.”
I studied her, every line, every weathered curve around her mouth. She looked like someone who had survived being forgotten.
“I know you got questions,” she said. “Ask me.”
“You remember the last thing you said to me?”
She flinched. “To brush your teeth.”
“Then you ran off. Like you were making groceries. But you didn’t come back.”
She swallowed. “Yeah.”
I leaned forward, my voice dropping another octave. “You know what it’s like to walk into every room wondering if the woman who made you can still breathe your name?”
“No. I can’t.”
“For years I hated myself for wanting you to come back. It’s why I went back to New Orleans, hoping you’d turn a corner and make it right.”
She looked away, eyes brimming.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “For all of it.”
I shook my head. “That ain’t enough.” The tree outside danced in the wind, leafless. “You got a daughter,” I said.
She nodded. “Kahlia.”
“You love her?”
“With everything I didn’t know how to give you.”
“Why–” My throat tightened. “Why couldn’t you learn how to give it to me?”
“Because I was broken,” she said, voice shaking. “And the only thing worse than watching your mother fall apart is thinking you’re the one supposed to catch her. I didn’t want that for you.”
