Every Monday evening, I would drive to the church with my mother beside me. I didn’t have my permanent license yet because one: I didn’t have a car, and two: my mother wanted me to pay the car insurance, which I couldn’t afford. As I cautiously drove the car down a winding dirt road, my mother stared silently out the window. She hadn’t spoken for the entire ride, and I was wondering if I should break the silence or let her be. When I had finally left the house and came to sit in the driver’s seat, she didn’t say anything. The silence that followed grew heavier with every moment I drove.

My mother had a tendency to put up emotional barriers that were practically impossible to get through. Since my mother was a funeral director, she had perfected the ability to remain respectfully passive. But over the years I had developed tactics to overcome those barriers.

I sneaked a glance at my mother and saw her shoulders rise and fall in a sad sigh. Her dark brown hair mirrored mine and her hazel eyes gazed out sadly at the blur of grassy fields passing by. The golden glow of the setting sun tinted her hair to a warm brown, making her look younger. That is, until we started to drive by a patch of trees that cast a shadow, and all the years of weariness returned.  

I sped through my mental list of things to say to her in these situations. After a moment of deliberation, I settled on one that was better than nothing.

“So Aunt Cindy told me she’s working on a new play,” I said lightly, “She says it’s her new masterpiece.”

My mother stayed silent.

“It’s supposedly about Henry VIII,” I continued, “She wants it to be in the same vein as Hamilton, which could either be really great or absolutely terrible.”

My mother replied with, “Mmm” to let me know that she was listening.

“Aunt Cindy doesn’t know the first thing about rapping or Henry VIII. And did you know she wants to play Henry VIII. I mean I’m all for a good genderbending but why did it have to be one of the worst King’s in English history?”

This elicited a small chuckle from my mother.

“Cindy always was attracted to the avant garde. I never really understood it, but if it makes her happy who am I to judge?”

I smiled.

I’d gotten through the barrier.

As I pulled into the church parking lot, I saw Ms. Higgins standing in the doorway to the church kitchen. When she spotted our car, she smiled and waved enthusiastically.

I parked the car and waved back at her.

“I’ll probably be done around 8:30,” I said, “Last week, Ms. Higgins said we might be a little busier today due to their new homeless outreach program.”

My mother nodded and leaned over to give me a quick kiss on the cheek. Before I opened the door to get out of the car, I turned back to my mother and said, “Are you gonna be okay?”

My mother looked up at me and gave me a not very convincing grin.

“Yeah, yeah I’ll be fine.”

I stared at her for a little while longer.

“You don’t have to put up with him you know,” I said after a long pause. “Just because he’s your son, doesn’t mean you have to accept the crap he always throws at you.”

My mother stared back at me and I could see tears forming in her eyes.

“He’s a grown man, mom.” I leaned toward her, already too invested to stop. “You’re not responsible for him anymore.”

My mother held up a hand. “Let’s not talk about this anymore okay?” She busied herself with unbuckling her seatbelt. “I’m sure Ms. Higgins needs you now. You know how short staffed they are in the kitchen.”

I watched her step out of the passenger seat and sighed in frustration.

Damn . . . pushed away again.