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But I couldn’t bear to say goodbye.
I fucking hate goodbyes. So I didn't say it. What the fuck would she want with me? The broken boy rejected by his mother. Twice.
Nobody wants or deserves my fuckery. Violet deserves better. She deserves someone who lives close to her, in the same town, Christ, someone who lives in the same state. But I live in a completely different country.
She deserves more than I can give her.
After the showdown with my mother, I thought I knew best. I thought it would be easier to leave without a backward glance. My mom seemed to manage it just fine.
But I am not her and I have lived with so much regret since leaving Santa Monica.
I fucked up. Big-time.
I didn’t say goodbye to her.
I don’t know what I was thinking.
Clearly, I wasn’t, and I still can’t think straight.
And now I am back to square one.
Back to feeling like I’m missing something in my life.
And nothing has changed here in Scotland. It’s as if I never left.
Everything is the same.
But I have changed.
A sharp pain spears my chest. I’ve been getting shooting pains since I left Santa Monica.
I went to see a doctor about them, but after running a few different tests, he gave me a clean bill of health and sent me on my way. But there is something wrong with me. I feel horrific.
Maybe I need a good home-cooked meal as I’ve barely eaten in the last few weeks either. I’ve lost my appetite for everything.
“You look like skatá.” My yaya throws shade my way, telling me I look like shit in Greek.
I hunch myself over her wooden kitchen table. I feel like skatá.
“When did you last eat?” Her accent is a mix of Greek and Scottish. It’s a fucked-up cocktail.
“Echthés.” Yesterday.
She flies off the handle, throwing her wooden spoon into a sink full of water, making the soapy water splash everywhere.
Food is a big thing on the Greek side of my family. It’s a huge part of our culture. Food for us is about celebrating and, more importantly, it’s about family, friends, and socializing. Food for my yaya is about her keeping us content, warm, and happy. She feels better when she feeds us, and she sure loves to feed us.
“Tróo.” Eat. She slams a heaped plate of moussaka in front of me. There is no elegance about her today. She’s mad at me. Mad at me for not eating. Mad at me for throwing the love of a good woman away. Mad at me because I didn’t speak to her about my predicament.
She’s just mad.
She bunches her jet-black hair up on top of her head and wraps it in a bun. Dressed in a simple maroon wraparound dress, as always, she is effortlessly chic. However, it’s the first time I have noticed that she’s going gray as little white hairs poke out here and there through her dark locks. She’s getting older.
She’s going to leave me, too.
I dig into my food with a heavy heart. She rambles away to me in superspeed Greek, telling me about her and my grandfather and how it all seemed impossible, but how I am not like him and she’s disappointed I didn’t fight hard enough for Violet.
I could recite what she is saying to me word for word. She’s been saying the same thing to me since I returned from overseas.
