Momma swoops in, never one to enter a room quietly. “I came to tuck you in, sweetie.”
I smile. “Momma, I’m twenty-seven,” I remind her.
She runs a hand through my locks, my fancy up-do long ago destroyed. “You’ll always be my baby, Maeve.”
She sits next to me on the bed. “Marilyn, Mandy and I were talking, and we all think that it would do you good to come home for a bit,” she says. “A change of scenery might make you feel better. You need to get away from all this… take a breather. And it’s perfect timing,” she adds, “with you losing your job and all…” she trails off.
Thanks Momma, thanks for reminding me that my life is the pits.
“I don’t know…”
“I was thinking… just one week,” she goes on. “You haven’t been home in ages. We’d all love to have you.”
Bugs, fishing, sunsets, tall grass, rock beaches, and that hometown smell – fish, the burger stand down the street, and trees.
Maybe Momma’s right. I won’t see too many reminders of Peter there; no fancy restaurants, men in flashy suits, or BMWs zooming down the road. Greasy spoons, plaid shirts and pick-up trucks, more like.
It’s the perfect plan.
Just one week.
