Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
I can’t wait until my two weeks are up, and I’m free to set my own schedule. I want to have all the breakfasts with her.
I want to have her for breakfast.
I want to take my time.
Anyway, my mom launches straight into the tirade I was expecting, and she ticks all the items off the mom guilt list.
I’m an ungrateful son. (Untrue.)
I’m leaving them in the lurch, creating a hole that can’t be filled. (Untrue.)
I’m throwing my life away. (Untrue.)
I should have let them know first before I humiliated them like this. (Possibly true, but the end result would have been this conversation happening a few days ago instead of right now, playing out exactly the same way.)
It’s amazing that I can hear anything above my mother’s shrill ticking off of all my past, present, and future failings, but my ears pick up the gentle woosh of the sliding door opening and closing in the kitchen.
I thought Amalphia was asleep, but either she was up for the morning and was unexpectedly walking into a bomb blast, or she heard the screeching outside and came to rescue me.
I try to cut my mother off, but there’s no stopping her. Literally. She doesn’t even falter when I open my mouth.
From the kitchen, the fridge opens and closes. A few more seconds pass, and the low buzz of the espresso machine kicks on. My mother appears not to notice. She’s far too intent on her tirade, which isn’t stopping. The words just keep coming, flowing like the coffee Amalphia is making in here.
Even if she doesn’t fully understand the situation here, she would only need to hear the baseline level of my mother’s strident tones and calculate the hour to know that coffee is needed. Badly.
My mouth practically waters at the thought of that rich espresso with the foamy steamed milk on top. They just somehow taste better when Amalphia makes them.
“Mother…”
She ignores me, pacing the room, wagging her fingers at me, and recounting all my past failures, sins, and grievances.
If I used her first name—Cora May—it would stop her in her tracks.
Reginald only calls Candice by her first name. I figure that’s her preference, but my mother has never been anything other than mother to me, hardly ever mom, and to everyone else, Mrs. Beanbottom. I have never heard anyone call her Cora May, not even my father. Not once, and I’m digging deep here, searching through a lifetime of memories.
Amalphia appears cautiously in the doorway. She’s holding two mugs, and she looks like an angel. Firstly, because she is. Secondly, because…coffee and the thoughtful care behind it.
We’re in the sunroom. I had the misguided notion that it would be soothing for my mother. Amalphia’s done a great job with the plants. They’re thriving. She’s even repotted several and transplanted babies out from their parent plants, so the amount of pots in here has nearly doubled. In addition, she’s meticulous when cleaning the glass. She’s constantly dusting imaginary motes and specs, so the place is immaculate.
It’s so early that the sun hasn’t even risen yet, but when it comes out, it’ll be glorious through all these windows.
This room, which I once considered strange and useless, has become one of my favorite spots in the house. We usually eat breakfast here, sitting on the teak and black leather mid-century modern Danish chairs, watching the first golden rays creep into the sky. Sometimes, we talk about everything and nothing. Other mornings, we just sit in silence, drinking coffee, happy in the glow of each other’s presence.
Amalphia’s purple glittery top catches the light, sparkling like a disco ball. Her flared jeans with the huge bottoms, patterned with light-washed mandalas and an array of tiny dots, fit her perfectly. I love that, early in the morning, before she’s tamed them, her curls are wild. They’re a frizzy riot around her face now. She’s never complained about having curly hair, and she shouldn’t. Frizzy or perfectly teased out, her hair is stunning.
I adore her hair.
I adore everything about her.
My girlfriend.
My mother blinks. She blinks again. It’s the sparkles dancing around the room. She’s trying to figure out where they’re coming from.
Crossing her arms, she goes deadly silent and angles to the side in order to look over her shoulder.
“Uh, hey,” Amalphia says, but I can tell by the way she taps the toe of her flip-flop on the floor that this is going to be the last tame statement my mother gets if she doesn’t stop her rant.
“Ahh, it’s the help,” my mother snorts, dismissing Amalphia with a flick of her fingers. “Kindly remove yourself. We’re having a conversation.”
Amalphia giggles. She bites down on the inside of her cheek very obviously to try and stifle it, but it only grows until her nostrils flare, and the cups of coffee slosh dangerously close to the brim.