Page 78 of Just Between Us

Mom picks up her pastry, then sets it back down and fidgets with her napkin, twisting it between her fingers.

The silence is awkward and I know I should say something, but my tongue is frozen, no words forming.

“How’s work?” Mom mercifully asks. “Ashley says you stay busy.”

“It’s fine. Rewarding.” I aim for a smile that I’m sure is this side of dim.

“And Singing River? Do you like it there?”

“I do.” I can hear how clipped my words are. She’s trying, and I’m giving her nothing to work with.

We sit in silence for several agonizingly long seconds before Mom clears her throat.

“I’m glad you came for Christmas,” she says quietly. “Thanksgiving was…hard.”

The acknowledgement catches me off guard and my eyes lift to meet hers. I expected her to keep up the small talk and pretend everything is normal.

“Yeah, it was. Things are still hard.” The honesty slips out before I can think twice about it.

She nods, the tiniest uplift of her head. “Ashley told me I should give you space. She told me you’d talk when you’re ready.” Mom’s waterline fills with tears and she looks back at her napkin. “But I’m afraid you’ll never be ready, and I can’t blame you for that.”

My throat tightens. I can’t imagine what courage it took for her to say that. Reaching over, I clasp her hand in mine. “I want to, Mom. Truly.”

Mom smiles and our eyes meet once more. “I still can’t get over how grown up you are. It seems like you should still be the little girl who only ate chicken nuggets for a month straight.Three meals a day.” She releases a short laugh. “I was so worried, but the pediatrician assured me you’d get tired of them.”

“I don’t—” I clear my throat, trying to find the right words. “I don’t remember that.”

The admission lands, heavy and sad, while my heart does a painful lurch in my chest. I want to remember. I’d give anything to pull the memory up and say “Oh my god, yes! And didn’t you buy the dinosaur-shaped ones?”

I know the good memories are there. I’ve found them before, pulled them out and held them up to the light. But sitting here across from her, those aren’t the ones that surface. What comes instead is the sound of heavy boots on hardwood floor, Austin’s hand gripping mine as he rushed us to his closet. Lying amongst those, there’s no room for chicken nuggets. Pressure builds behind my eyes but I blink until it’s gone.

“I don’t really remember much from before,” I say quietly—and I don’t know if I’m sparing her or myself.

She searches my face, possibly sensing the lie but she doesn’t call me out on it. Six-year-olds don’t always remember details from childhood, and then there’s those like me who remember too much of it.

My mind wants to run down that path to the past, but Mom’s voice brings me back to the present. “Maybe we could work to form new memories then?”

“I’d like that,” I manage, a hoarse whisper.

“How about lunch tomorrow? Just us. I’ve been doing some housework for one of Ashley’s friends. I could take you for an early birthday lunch?” There’s an uptick at the end like she expects me to decline the invitation. Being born on Christmas Eve has always meant my birthday was a footnote to the main event. Even as a kid, I could see how Aunt Ashley and Uncle Brad worked hard to afford two extra kids so I kept my lips zipped when what I really wanted was a party like my friends.

“You remember my birthday?”

Mom’s lips part, face stricken in pain, and I wish I could reverse time to three seconds ago, before I asked that stupid, stupid question. Why do I keep doing this? Ruining moments where we’re making progress. But then Mom’s lips break out into a slow grin. An actual grin.

Lowering her voice conspiratorially, she says, “I’m not sure if you know this, but I was there.”

A laugh slips past my lips at her attempt at humor, and seconds later she’s laughing, too. This—this is what I’ve craved. A normal moment, mother and daughter laughing together, sitting at a kitchen table with pastry crumbs in front of them. It gives me a glimmer of hope that one day we might figure out this whole mother daughter thing together.

“So, lunch tomorrow?” Mom asks again, optimism threading through her question.

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

Her shoulders drop in relief. “Okay. This is good.” She stands, smoothing her hands down her jeans. “This is good,” she repeats, as if reassuring herself aloud. “I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing then.”

“Staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling.”

Mom gives a wistful smile. “Austin had those. You were so jealous of them.”