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I flex my jaw, getting stronger by the moment. This isn’t about me. I’m done being hurt and asking myself questions when I know the answers won’t be good enough.
“I wanted to see you,” I go on. “I wanted to figure you out. I wanted to understand why my sister died of a heart attack at seventeen years old, because she was taking drugs to keep her awake to study and be the perfect daughter, athlete, and student, so you would come back and be proud of her and want her!”
I study her face, seeing Annie’s brown eyes staring back, pained and turning red. “I wanted to understand why you didn’t come to your own child’s funeral,” I charge. “Your baby who was lying on a dark, wet, cold road for hours alone while your new kids,”—I shove at a picture frame on her desk, making it tumble forward—“in your new house,”—another picture frame—“with your new husband,”—the last picture frame—“were all tucked safe and warm in their beds, but not Annie. She was dying alone, having never felt her mother’s arms around her.”
She hunches forward, breaking down and covering her mouth with her hands again. This can’t be a surprise. She had to know this was going to happen someday.
I mean, I know she hasn’t seen me since I was two, but I thought for sure she would know me. That first day, seeing her in the lunchroom, I felt like she was going to turn around. Like she’d be able to sense me or some shit.
But she didn’t. Not then, not when she pulled me into her office for a “Hey, how are you?”… and not any time after that.
She deserted us and moved away when Annie was just a baby. After a time, I heard she went to college and started teaching, but honestly, it barely hurt.
I could understand being young—twenty-two with two kids—and not to mention the cut-throat family she married into. But I thought she’d eventually find her way back to us.
And later, when Annie and I found out she was only one town away, married to a man who already had a son, and she’d started a family with him and still hadn’t made the slightest effort to seek Annie and me out, I got angry.
Annie did everything in the hope our mother would hear about her or see her team in the paper and come for her.
“Now…” I say, my tone calm and even, “I don’t want any of those things. I just want my sister back.” I lean forward, placing my elbows on the tops of my knees. “And I want you to tell me something before I leave. Something I need to hear. I want you to tell me that you were never going to look for us.”
Her teary eyes shoot up to me.
Yeah, I might’ve convinced myself that I came here to collect the photo album of my sister’s school pictures and newspaper clippings Annie said she mailed her here that I found in her file cabinet and my grandfather’s watch, but really, part of me had a shred of hope. Part of me thought she might still be a good person and have an explanation. A way to tell me why—even in death—Annie’s mom still didn’t come for her.
“I want you to tell me you don’t regret leaving and you haven’t thought about us a single day since you left,” I demand. “You were happier without us, and you don’t want us.”
“Misha—”
“Say it,” I growl. “Let me leave here free of you. Give me that.”
Maybe she missed us and didn’t want to disrupt our lives. Maybe she missed us and didn’t want to disrupt her life. Or maybe that part of her life is broken and over, and she doesn’t want to go back. Maybe she doesn’t care.
But I do know that I can’t care about this anymore. I stare at her and wait for her to say what I need to hear.
“I wasn’t going to look for either of you,” she whispers, staring at her desk with tears streaming down her face. “I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t be your mother.”
I slam my hand down on her desk, and she jumps. “I don’t give a
shit about your excuses. I won’t feel sorry for you. Now say it. Say you were happier without us, and you didn’t want us.”
She starts crying again, but I wait.
“I’m happier since I left,” she sobs. “I never think about you and Annie, and I’m happier without you.” She breaks down as if the words are painful to say.
The sadness creeps up my throat, and I feel tears threatening. But I stand up, straighten my spine, and look down at her.
“Thank you,” I reply.
Turning, I walk for the door but stop, speaking to her with my back turned. “When your other daughter, Emma, turns eighteen, I will be introducing myself to her,” I state. “Do yourself a favor and don’t be an asshole. Prepare her before that time comes.”
And I open the door, leaving the office.
I step into the empty hallway and make my way for the entrance, the distance between my mother and me growing. With every step, I feel stronger.
I won’t regret leaving, I say to myself. I won’t think about you a single day from now on. I’m happier without you, and I don’t need you.
I’ll never look for you again.
