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I wait until I hear them pull from our driveway after having joined us for breakfast then head over to the beanbag that Matt is usually taking up while he plays video games. He’s out of town again, and Ivy’s working a shift. Cutter’s on the ice for pre-game. I’m truly on my own. No more excuses.
I dial my mom’s number and she answers instantly.
“Thank you. Oh, Laney, thank you for calling back.” She sounds winded but I think it’s just relief.
“Of course, I would call back.” I catch myself—that’s not true.“I mean, this is important. And I should call more often.”
My mom sniffles.
“That would be . . . nice.”
I lay back to stare at the ceiling and we both hold on with silence for a few long seconds. Where do I start? Maybe she will.
“I’m so incredibly proud of you, Laney. I always have been, and I’m so sorry I don’t say it enough.”
“You don’t really say it ever.” I wince at my own words because they sound harsh, and that’s not how I want this to go. “I mean that in an honest way, not to take a dig.”
“I know,” she says in a hushed tone. “And you’re right. I do brag about you to anyone who will listen, but perhaps I’ve been saying the good stuff to the wrong people. Wrongperson.”
More silence.
“Thanks. It’s nice to hear, even now,” I relent.
“I got the campus profile today.”
“Oh? Did you read dad’s quote?” I figure that’s where this is going.
“I did. It was pretty funny. But that’s not why I mention it. I cut the first page out and framed it. You look so strong and so fierce. And the words they have next to your photo. ‘All I want to do is win.’”
We both say the line together.
I breathe out a soft laugh.
“Yeah, how many years have I said that now?”
“Well, you’re twenty-two, and you started talking just after your first birthday, so . . . twenty-one years.”
We both laugh softly.
“Seems about right,” I agree.
I swallow hard, my throat closing due to how anxious this call is making me. I don’t like how things are with my mom, but breaking the pattern is hard. And saying things I know hurt her has left a bigger stain on my conscience than I thought it would.
“Mom, I’m sorry I was so angry the other day,” I finally let out.
“Oh, honey.” Her voice cracks, and I give her a few seconds to compose herself. A tear strikes at the corner of my eye and I dash it away with my Cutter Fan Club shirt.
“I’m the one who is sorry. I’ve put the pain from your dad leaving on you your entire life. Not intentionally, but I think somewhere deep down it made me feel less alone to share it with you. That wasn’t fair. I’m working on it. I’ve been talking to a therapist, and I’m learning a lot of things about myself.”
“That’s really good.” I sit up, my chest opening a little. This conversation is hard but it’s good. I feel good having it.
“It is. And I want you to know that I encourage you to make your own choices. To choose your circles, to pick who to love. And Cam was good on paper, so I forced it and I shouldn’t have. To hear he made you miserable . . .”
“It wasn’t all bad,” I sigh. I look out the window where a bird is sitting on the thinnest branch. It somehow holds his weight, and that somehow feels like a metaphor for everything in my life. I pile things on myself, even when I can’t hold it all. But Cutter forces me to share. He scares me. The way he can coax me into opening up. His patience? It’s terrifying. And the fact that he shows up for me, forcing me to accept his help.
“You know that photo you framed?” I grin imagining it.
“Uh huh,” my mom responds.
