My mom, who was in the kitchen, rushes back and shoos my hand away from her display. “How can I throw these away? You were so proud of them.”
I don’t argue with her. Instead, I glare at James with a silent demand to keep his insults to himself.
“I think they’re adorable,” James mocks, ignoring me. “And it’s so sweet of you to be so proud of Kendall’s accomplishments, Kathy.”
“Exactly,” my mom agrees. “Now go sit down. I’m just finishing up the sauce.”
We eat, James and I on one side of the dining table with my mom and stepdad wandering back and forth from the kitchen to make sure we have everything we need. We barely lift a finger, aside from our utensils to our mouths, as we eat. Mymom fills us in on the goings-on here at home, and James and I listen. I answer when my mom throws in an offhand question, usually about how life is now that we’ve been living together for some time. And next thing we know, I’m helping my mom put away leftovers while James sits in the living room watching an enrapturing game of some sort on the flat screen.
“How’s work?”
I nod, wiping away at the kitchen counter with a damp sponge. “It’s fine.”
“You’re planning on staying with the same school next year?”
“Depends on if they have a spot for me,” I answer with a shrug. “But I hope they do. I like the staff and the district is okay.”
“And Sylvia?” she continues. “She’s doing well with the baby?”
I ignore the twinge in my chest and force a smile. “Yeah. Baby’s great.”
“How’s their new place?”
“Yeah,” I answer, avoiding her gaze for some reason. “It looks amazing. They look…happy there.”
I finally look at her, the sad smile still on my face. I expect her smile to match mine. Even an affirming hum and a transition into the next topic of conversation, but instead, the sigh that leaves her lips feel heavy. “Are you going to talk to me?”
I continue this clueless act, attempting to replace the fake smile with a look of innocence. Hopefully something more convincing. “What do you mean?”
The dish towel in her hands turns into a twined knot, twisting and turning with tension. “Look,” she says, her voice low and discreet. She shoots a quick glance in the direction of the living room. “Whatever is going on with you, you haven’t been the same for—for a while. Ever since you moved. And I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
I bite my lower lip, a sad attempt to stop my trembling chin.
“It’s me. You know you can tell me anything.”
I look at her with glassy eyes. While I consider not telling her, the weight of holding onto something I would’ve told her over and over crushes my chest. “I really thought I’d just get over it. I thought I would get better and just…move on, but I haven’t. And I don’t know why.”
Her confusion doesn’t interrupt me, and neither does her impatience. She holds back, giving me time to finish.
“We had a miscarriage almost two years ago,” I finally tell her. “It happened not long after James and I started dating. It wasn’t planned or anything, the pregnancy. But we were happy. I was going to tell you, and we were going to tell his parents, but then…we lost it. It just went away, and it felt like someone punched a hole in my chest, and that hole is still there. It’s gotten smaller over time, but it’s still there, and I just don’t know how to fill it. Sometimes, I feel like I’m going to be okay and maybe I’ll move on, but then I don’t know if I want to. I feel guilty for even trying to move on and pretending like none of it even happened. I just don’t know, and I feel like it’s going to eat me alive?—”
I’m sobbing at this point, and my mom pulls me into a tight hold. She shushes me, running her hand down my back, all while I cry onto her shoulder. I can feel her chest heave, matching the desperate breaths I’m trying to catch.
“You’re allowed to grieve on your own terms,” she finally tells me, wiping a lone tear off my cheek. She holds my face in her hands, forcing my eyes on her, and I almost believe her. “You don’t need to feel ashamed or unsure because you haven’t moved on.”
I nod, finally feeling like I don’t need to keep my emotions bottled up, all tangled in this netting barely holding me together.It can all unravel, spill out so my mom can be there to pick it apart and help me regain some of my life.
“Kat!”
We’re jolted from our moment, my mom bracing my shoulders and turning her face to my stepdad. “Yeah,” she calls over her shoulder.
“The neighbor’s dogs are in the trash again.” I see him buzz past the doorway to the kitchen and head straight to the front door.
My mom huffs and gives me one last look of encouragement. “They might get into the chicken coop.”
“I’m fine,” I tell her. I smile, this time without the strain that was there before. “Really, I’m okay. I should check on James anyway.”
“We’ll talk again when I’m back,” she promises.
