Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 37164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 186(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 186(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
I’ve been breaking for a long time.
Tonight, I finally stop pretending otherwise.
I don’t hear the car pull up.
I only realize I’m not alone anymore when the front door opens and closes softly, the sound careful in the way only one person in my life ever is.
“I brought soup,” Aunt Carol calls from the kitchen. “It’s your favorite too. Chicken noodle with leeks, just like you taught me. You don’t have to eat it, but it exists. Oh and so do I, in case you forgot.”
She’s trying to be funny but it just doesn’t land right now. Even though I usually love it, I have no capacity for her humor.
I’m sitting on the floor of my childhood bedroom, back against the wall, surrounded by open boxes and half-sorted versions of my life. My eyes burn. My chest feels hollowed out, scooped clean and left that way.
“You didn’t have to come,” I declare, because saying thank you feels too vulnerable.
She appears in the doorway a moment later, a sweater too big for her already on, her hair in a messy bun on top of her head. Her gaze sweeps the room, taking in the bare walls, the boxes, the way I’ve slid all the way down to the floor and have been frozen since.
She doesn’t comment. She just lowers herself beside me, slow and deliberate, close enough that our shoulders touch. For a long moment, we don’t speak. The house fills the silence for us, settling and creaking like it’s speaking for us.
“She hated this room empty,” Carol nods toward the walls. “It was hard for her when you went to college. She was happy to see you go but…”
A small, broken sound escapes me. “She hated quiet.”
“She sure did,” Carol agrees. “More than anything. She needed people. Noise. Something to do with her hands.”
I swallow. “Was she lonely?”
Carol doesn’t hesitate. “No.”
I turn toward her.
“She missed you,” she corrects gently. “That’s different.”
The truth lands where it always does, right in my heart. “I was doing the best I could.”
“You were,” she answers immediately. “And she knew that too.”
Silence settles again, heavier now.
I need something, anything to keep my hands busy, and to distract me from the booming in my head. I reach for another box. This one is heavier than the rest.
Inside are photographs.
Nothing in albums or stacked or labelled. There are just stacks of loose prints, edges softened from being handled, from being loved.
All are loose save for one in a frame, but a photo I’ve never seen before.
My mother is kneeling, coat open, hair tucked behind one ear, her face gentle in a way I recognize instantly. She must have been early thirties here. In front of her stands a little boy, maybe six or seven, clutching a bright red toy truck to his chest like it’s something precious and fragile. It’s hard to make out his features with the oversized Santa hat draping over half of his face, but that smile says it all. It’s is wide with the kind of joy that doesn’t know yet how rare it is.
“What’s this?” I ask Aunt Carol, hoping for some guidance and some clarity.
She smiles fondly at the photo, her gaze lingering on it like she’s back in that moment in time. She exhales slow, a sweet smile curling on her lips. “Keep digging, that’s why you’re here.”
I reach deeper into the box and pull another photo at random, and this one feels different in my hands. The paper is newer, the images more crisp.
The first one makes my stomach drop.
It’s the community center again, only my mother is seated now, not standing or directing, just present. She’s wrapped in a thick sweater despite the crowd, hands folded in her lap, a knitted blanket tucked over her knees, while Mrs. Kincaid crouches beside her, clipboard abandoned, smiling like she’s been let in on something precious.
Mom’s smile is still there but it’s smaller, like it’s conserving energy.
I flip to the next.
She’s leaning against a folding table now, one hand braced for balance, the other resting on a stack of wrapped gifts. Mrs. Levin stands in front of her, tiny and fierce, handing her a drink of some sort in a styrofoam cup. The look on my mother’s face, gratitude mixed with fatigue, lands right next to grief in my body.
Another photo.
The room is fuller. The lights brighter and my mother is seated again only this time in a wheelchair. I hadn’t known she used one. I gasp at the sight, my hand shooting up to my mouth, trying to quell the sound of guilt escaping.
“I didn’t know, Auntie. I didn’t know.”
“I know, dear. She didn’t want you to.”
Her hair is thinner, her cheeks more hollow but she’s laughing with her head tipped back, eyes closed. A group of kids crowd around her, holding toys like trophies. One of them is helping place a Santa hat on her head, delicately.