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I laughed, but it sounded a little sad, even to me. “Probably.”
“George, though,” she said thoughtfully. “There’s a guy who wouldn’t need a lot of convincing to kick the shit out of a guy for you.”
I swatted at her. “Nobody is kicking the shit out of anybody.”
My mom wrapped her arms around me and pulled me close, and I didn’t hesitate to lean against her. “No, of course not. And I won’t pick any more about this guy, but…” she paused, as though searching for the right words. “You’re brilliant and smart and funny, and so kind. I’m proud of you every day, and if you weren’t my daughter, I’d be jealous of the family who did get a daughter like you. So if you’re dealing with a guy who doesn’t think he won the lottery with you—well, move on, because there are tons of guys who won’t make that mistake and will realize what a treasure you are.”
My mom’s words weren’t exactly what I wanted to hear, but the kindness and the concern felt like a balm on my wounded psyche, and I drew in a long, ragged sigh, relieved to be with people who cared about me. People who didn’t want me to get hurt.
“Thanks, Mom,” I said, disentangling myself from her comforting embrace. “Let’s get back out there so I can finish my stew.”
My brothers were on their best behavior for the rest of dinner, even going as far as to refuse to let me help clear the table. While they washed dishes and shouted at each other, I wandered out into the living room, where Nana already waited for me with her manicure supplies. I painted her nails for her every week—Nana always liked to feel put together, but during the last couple of years, her hands shook too much to neatly apply the polish. So one week, I brought manicure supplies with me and started doing it for her after dinner without even asking first. Now, it was our weekly ritual.
“What’s the color you’ve got on your toes?” she said, glancing down to my bare feet.
“Naughty or Nice Red,” I said as I pulled out the file and started to gently work at her thumbnail. “I don’t have it with me, though. Sorry. I can bring it next week, if you want.”
“That’s fine,” she said, settling into her chair as I pushed her cuticles back. “Let’s do that slutty hot pink today, then.”
I snorted and continued my work. “Slutty hot pink it is, Nana.”
I didn’t forget about Clive while I trimmed, filed and painted Nana’s nails—not even close—but as I put away her nail supplies and kissed and hugged everyone goodbye, I felt a little bit lighter. More confident in my worth as a person with or without Clive’s regard.
I felt something huge for him. Huge and scary, but the little voice inside of me that said I was worthy no matter what—I heard it just a little bit louder after my mom’s pep talk. But it never used my voice—it was always others. Their faith in me, their belief that I was a good and important person.
The trick was learning how to say it to myself, and believe those words. And I didn’t know how to do it—not yet, anyway. But I knew that it was way past time to learn.
