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SEVEN MONTHS LATER
I’mstandingoutsidemychildhood home.
Regardless of the outcome today, I know it’s necessary for me to exchange some words with my mother, so I can shed the chains she’s wrapped around me using Lex’s death as an excuse to allow her to wallow in the past.
Stepping up to the doorbell, I let my eyes peruse the red brick exterior, the patterned glass window to my second story window, and the uniform bushes that match the rest of the identical houses on the narrow street.
Mum opens the door and her scowl turns down even more.
“You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve. What do you want?” Her voice is harsher than I remember. Guess that will happen to you when you smoke a pack a day for two decades.
“Can we talk?” I push the words out in an even tone, shoving down my pain until she will properly hear it.
She hesitates, eyes surveying the quiet, manicured neighbourhood like she can’t stand the idea of being seen with me. Eventually, she lets me inside. I try not to hover in the stuffy hallway where pictures of a young Lex dangle from the wall. When we reach the small kitchen, she sits down at the table. I stifle a cough as she lights up a cigarette immediately.
“How have you been?” I ask, taking in the new wrinkles on her face. The frizzy black hair curling out from her messy bun. I haven’t seen her since dropping her off at J. Flowers Health Institute years ago. The bags under her eyes are more prominent, and there are packs of cigarettes stacked on the kitchen counter, along with ashtrays, all over the stuffy, dust-coated living room.
She puffs out a thick cloud of smoke. “Could be better. Dishwasher went out last month.”
There’s a request in that comment, one she lets linger. Was she always this cold and callous? Was there ever a time that she loved me? Or was my coming out the excuse she needed to stop pretending to care for me, the child she never wanted?
I was the needy one, after all. The one with colic. The one that cried all the way up until age seven, clinging to her skirts when she would drop me off at school or aftercare. The one that had recurring nightmares and kept her from sleeping. The one that refused to finish the meal she prepared because textures bothered me.
The one that admitted to liking a guy at school.
Could she at least pretend to want me here? I mean, I get that she’s only after the money, but could she make that less obvious?
Though, it’s somewhat of a relief knowing I can finally close this chapter on my life for good. I have the power to stop letting her manipulate me.
“I can’t keep supporting you,” I finally say, hating the taste of the words on my tongue.
She blinks at me through a cloud of smoke. “What.”
“Once I’m done paying off J. Flowers, I’m not sending you any more money. I’m not going to enable you to sit around in your own pain and do nothing.“
Her hands begin to tremble. “You’re fucking kidding me, right?”
“Mum, you need to find a job—”
“Get the fuck out of my house.”
I sigh, sadness and hurt rising up inside me. After a few moments of practiced breaths, I let the emotions pass. Then I meet her heated gaze.
“I’m sorry. For everything. For not being the child you wanted. For my failure with Lex—”
“Get the fuck out!” Her hand tremors as she points toward the front door.
Summoning the strength I’ve been building in preparation for this day, I forge on. “I don’t think I’ll ever shed the guilt for that night. But I hope one day you can understand that I would never, ever do anything intentionally to harm you or him. I hope one day you can forgive me.”
She rises from her chair, all fire and brimstone. “Out, now! And don’t you fucking come back here again! You worthless, murderous child—”
Calmly, I move for the front door. I close it behind me and inhale a deep breath of cool air. I linger on the porch to filter through what I’m feeling, permitting myself the space to analyse my thoughts before they can have a detrimental impact.
Months ago, I would have locked myself in a bathroom and contemplated ways to drown out the pain. Right now? Nothing has a hold of me except a buoyant feeling growing in my chest.
I send a text to my AA sponsor letting the older man know that I’m okay. That’s another thing I’ve learned during my healing process. The importance of communication. Opening up to others has never been easy for me, but I’m learning. I want to learn.
