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As I get closer, I see the charming mailbox tucked up close to the garden's edge. Its paint is fading, yet its soul endures, bearing the imprint of many notes and best wishes. This little point serves as a reminder of the many people that my mother's warmth and generosity have touched throughout the years.
I inhale deeply, gathering my courage before pressing the doorbell. It's been so long since I last visited my mother's house. I recall the bitter argument we had when I rejected her proposal for me to attend art school. Since then, our communication dwindled to mere text messages until, eventually, even those ceased.
I have no idea how she will react upon seeing me, but my mother played a significant role in my childhood, and it feels only fitting to include her in the most important event of my life.
Finally, summoning all my strength, I ring the doorbell and anxiously await the door to open. After a moment, no one appears to greet me. All I can hear is the chirping of birds from the nearby tree. I ring the bell again, hoping my mother will answer. Perhaps her age has made it challenging for her to reach the entrance promptly. However, the silence persists.
No one comes to open the door, indicating that my mother is not home. I ring the bell two or three more times, but there is still no response. My heart starts racing as I realize my phone battery is only at 2%. Hastily, I open the messaging app, my fingers trembling.
"Please come home," I quickly type and pressed send.
"I need to talk to you about something." I say in another message.
"Please arrive as soon as you can." I start to type a third message when my phone suddenly turns off. I'm anxious, and my heart is thumping in my chest. I'm now only able to think about Ethan. I wish he were here to comfort me, but I'm on my own.
I had just about given up hope that my day could get much worse when I remember I left my purse at Ethan's apartment. I can’t even call a cab to go home. In a circumstance I could never have anticipated, I'm stuck at my mother's house. I can only hope that my mom has seen my texts at this point.
I contemplate on the front porch with my arms on my forehead. For a few seconds, the tension subsides as I shut my eyes and consider Ethan and our impending wedding. But before I can do anything more, tiredness takes hold of me, and I fall asleep on my mother's front porch.
*****
An unexpected tap on my shoulder jolts me out of sleep. I gradually open my eyes, but the dust that has accumulated in them has left my eyesight blurry. After I wipe my eyes, I realize my mother is standing in front of me.
"Hey, Olivia. Wake up," my mother says. It's impressive that she still remembers my face. Her voice has drastically changed since we last spoke. Her presence makes me aware her age catching up to her.
"Oh, Mother. How are you?" I reply, rising gently from the porch.
"Younger than you'd think, Olive," she quips, and we both share a chuckle.
"I saw your message on my phone. Actually, I had gone out to do some grocery shopping," she explains as she unlocks the door to her house. "Come on in," she gestures, inviting me inside.
A recognizable lavender aroma welcomes me as I walk through the creaky front door. Flowers float from the ancient vase on the foyer table. Warm sunshine streams through the transparent drapes and casts a warm glow on the weathered wooden planks in the dimly lit corridor.
"So, what brings you here, Olivia?" she says, placing the grocery bags down in the kitchen.
"Can you come to sit with me?" I request a seat on the couch.
She walks over and settles down on the opposite couch.
"Sure, what's on your mind, sweetheart?" she says. I appreciate how she still uses endearing names despite our strained relationship.
I delicately hold my mother's hand in mine, tracing the lines and contours of her aging skin.
"Do you remember what happened between us?" I inquire.
"Yes, how could I forget?" she responds.
"What do you remember?" I probe further.
"I asked you to join an art college, but you insisted on opening an art gallery instead. We had a major argument about it, and you stormed off in anger, never to return," she recounts, her voice quivering as a tear escapes down her cheek.
"Don't cry, Mom," I say softly, wiping away her tears.
"But why shouldn't I? I lost my only daughter," she replies.
"It wasn't your fault. I should have listened to you, but I was stubborn and didn't consider your perspective," I confess.
"Yes, but I shouldn't have forced my opinion on you, Olive," she admits.
