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There’s a light tapping at my front door, and even though I’d rather ignore it and spend the rest of my night feeling like shit and word vomiting in private messages that will never be read, I’m curious who could be stopping by. And frankly, I’m starting to get tired of my own shitty company. Pushing up from the couch and suddenly feeling like a hundred years old instead of thirty-four, I slowly pad across the carpet in my bare feet to the front door, pulling it open without bothering to check the peep hole.
“Here, take this. It’s heavy.”
A large, rectangular box is shoved into my chest, and I quickly grab it and move out of the way as my mom pushes her way inside my cottage, bending down so I can kiss the cheek she tips up to me.
“It’s nice to see you too after three months,” I tell her, kicking the door closed behind me as I watch her walk into the living room and survey my small, temporary home.
“You just FaceTimed me this morning. And you still look like shit,” she reminds me, moving into my kitchen and setting a big, insulated bag on my counter that was hanging by a long strap off her shoulder. She then starts opening and closing drawers and cupboards, making sure I put everything away neatly. “You know I would have come to visit sooner to help you unpack, but your dad and I just couldn’t resist tacking on a few extra days to our Alaska cruise.”
My sisters have always complained that I’m Mom’s favorite. Savannah and Sophia are twelve and thirteen years older than me. I’m the “oops” baby, the youngest, and the only boy, so maybe sometimes I get spoiled a little more. The only reason my mom wasn’t camped out on my floor before I even arrived on the island was because I bought my parents a cruise for their anniversary. Being the supposed “favorite” just means my mom is a lot more comfortable giving me shit all the time and telling me when I’m being an idiot.
“Why are you bringing me your Cricut?” I ask, setting the box down on my coffee table and then moving over to one of the barstools against my small kitchen island, instead of dwelling on why I look like shit, since that’s most likely the reason for my mom’s impromptu visit.
Her and my dad were already scheduled to come over to the island this weekend for dinner, but after our FaceTime call when they got home from the airport this morning and her freaking out that I looked miserable, I should have assumed she would stop by before the weekend.
“You bought those Cricuts for all of us for Christmas that one year, and I love you, Shepherd, but you know I never use mine. Your sister said you had a craft emergency the other night, so I figured I’d bring it with me,” she says, quickly pulling spatulas out of a drawer and then sticking them into a silver bucket on the counter by the stove with a few other utensils.
I quietly watch her work, not even a little bit ashamed that having my mom here makes me feel just a little bit better. She moves back to the insulated bag sitting on the island in front of me and starts pulling out what easily looks like a month’s worth of food in plastic containers, going back and forth between the bag and my freezer, stacking the containers neatly inside.
“I forgot how small these cottages are,” my mom muses when she finishes filling my freezer and then continues nosing through my kitchen, giving me a pointed look when she sees my Tupperware cupboard is still a mess. “I can’t believe we raised three children in one of them, with only one bathroom and such a tiny kitchen. Although we only had the three of you for a few years before your sisters were off to college. It was still a struggle with just you, your dad, and me always on top of each other all the time.”
It feels like someone just sliced me with that knife again when I think about Wren raising Owen in one of these cottages. The rentals aren’t exactly the same as the permanent resident cottages. The resident cottages have a few more square feet of space, but not much. Don’t get me wrong; Wren’s cottage is adorable, decorated in white and light-gray with turquoise accents and beach knickknacks here and there. It has a perfect view of the ocean, and it’s warm, inviting, comfortable, and perfectly her. But I know how hard she works and how much she sacrifices, and I know she deserves more than a two-bedroom cottage with a bathroom she has to share with her teenage son. She deserves space, and luxury, and a closet she can fit a semi-truck in, and a theater room she can binge her favorite shows in, and a Jacuzzi bathtub she can do laps in, and anything else in the world she’s ever dreamed of.
