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“It’s fine,” I assure, the panic over their first meeting lifted. “You being here is enough.”
He settles his hand on the small of my back, guiding me in my own house. Dipping his head, his words just for me, he says, “You look nice, Ava.”
I pull back so I can take him in again. My initial thoughts haven’t changed. “You look… okay, I suppose.”
“It’s milk and cookies,” Mom announces proudly, standing behind a chair at the kitchen table. On the table are a giant plate of cookies and three tall glasses of milk. “I used to do this for Ava’s friends whenever they’d come around. They were a lot younger then, though.” Her eyes shift from Connor to me, a wistfulness in her gaze that sets my soul at ease. “You remember that, Ava?”
“Yeah, Mama,” I answer, my voice cracking with emotion. “Of course, I remember.”
Please don’t ever forget me.
She smiles, but it’s sad, and I wonder what’s going through her mind. I wonder if the memories of before haunt her or heal her. “I know you’re seventeen now, but I don’t know what else to do…” She looks at Connor. “When I left Ava for my first deployment, she was only ten years old and so…”
Connor rolls up his sleeves, looks directly at her with the same gentle softness in his eyes he carries with him everywhere. If he’s at all shocked or deterred by her appearance, he doesn’t let it show. “I’m here for it, ma’am,” he says. “I mean, who doesn’t love milk and cookies?”
We sit at the table, all three of us, sipping on milk and munching on cookies while Mom asks Connor about himself. “How tall are you, Connor?”
“Not as tall as I want to be. Six-five right now, but I’m hoping for a growth spurt,” he jokes.
Mom says, “Kobe Bryant’s only six-five and look at him.”
Connor’s eyes widen.
Mom adds, “And Chris Paul’s six foot even. That never stopped him.”
Connor drops his cookie on the plate. “Damn, if I don’t like a woman who can talk ball.”
Mom laughs.
I tell him, “Mom played college ball.”
“No way!” Connor doesn’t even try to hide his surprise. He stuffs an entire cookie in his mouth. “These cookies are so good, Miss Diaz.”
The conversation moves from him, to the paper we’re working on, to me as a kid, me as a baby, and even though some of Mom’s stories are embarrassing, I can’t wipe the smile off my face. Because I realize that she remembers all the important things, all the events that made me who I am, who we are as a family. She remembers the camping trip we took together right before she deployed, the tent leaking, the marshmallows I loved to watch being set ablaze right in front of my eyes. She remembers the fireflies. The magic. “And we sang that song, remember?”
I nod. “‘Fireflies’ by Owl City.”
“I love that song,” she hums. “It brings it all back, doesn’t it, Ava?”
Another nod, because I can’t speak through the knot in my throat. There’s an ache in my chest, but the right kind. The kind that reminds me of why I’m here, of why I wake up every day at 4:30, and why I feel absolutely no jealousy when I hear about the parties over the weekend or the games I’ve missed or see the public displays of affection from the kids at school.
I’m here because she is.
Mom refills Connor’s milk. “How tall are you, Connor?”
And just like that, my stomach sinks.
Connor says, not skipping a beat, “Not as tall as I want to be. Six-five right now, but I’m hoping for a growth spurt.”
Mom smiles. “Kobe Bryant’s six-five and look at him.”
Under the table, Connor taps his foot against mine. “That’s true.”
Mom adds, “And Chris Paul, he’s only six foot and that never stopped him.”
“Also, true,” Connor says. Then adds, “Did I mention how good these cookies were?”
Mom’s smile widens. “I’m glad you like them.”
