I feel like a child again. I am sitting on the couch where I got my first fever; where I watched my favorite Tv shows; where I made out with someone for the first time while my mom was away. I am wrapped in a blanket, cradling a cup of tea as if it is the last source of heat in a dead, cold world.
“So,” my mother begins, sitting across from me in the armchair. “Are we going to talk about it?”
I don’t know what to say. I don’t know whether to tell her everything, some things or nothing at all.
“I messed up,” is all I manage to say.
“Who hasn’t?” my mom laughs. “How bad?” she adds.
“Pretty bad,” I say in that choked, pitiful voice you get before you start to cry.
“You kill somebody?” she asks.
“What? No.” I return hurriedly, caught off-guard.
“Then it wasn’t too bad,” my mom says playfully. “Guess leaving didn’t pan out the way you thought it would.”
“Do you know the reason that I left?” I ask with a hint of bitterness. “It’s because of you. Because every time anyone started talking about how great their kid was, all of the wonderful things they were doing, you looked right at me. You looked at me like I could never measure up. So I tried to measure up, to be someone you could brag about, but I couldn’t.” I spit. “At that Christmas party, I had to watch as all of my aunts and uncles went on and on about how amazing all of my cousins were-all the great things they had going for them. And all you could do was glare at me because you knew I could never be like them. So I lied. I said a had gotten a job out of state, and I took what little money I had, and I tried to make my lie a reality."
My mother is staring at me hard. Her small, wrinkled mouth is open ajar.
“Do you know why I always looked at you?” she asks. “It’s because I was proud. Because hearing about other peoples’ accomplishments only reminded me of your own. Because whenever anybody talks about their children-their sons-I could only think of you.”
Peyton was right. I’m a black hole of selfishness, so engulfed in myself that I can't see anybody else. My throat tightens as if I’m having an allergic reaction to her words. I stare hard at the carpet, trying to keep my eyes dry.
“I’m sorry, Will,” my mother suddenly says, her lips creasing. She nervously folds her hands in her lap, fiddling with the end of her sweater. “I should have told you. I should have…looked you in the eye and said I was proud of you. But I couldn’t. I never heard those words growing up. I never knew what pride was until I had you. And with your father gone, I got so busy that I missed so many opportunities to tell you.”
“No-no, Mom, it’s not your fault!” I cry. “You had to! You worked like a dog for us! It’s me. I was a selfish brat. I could have helped, I could have tried harder at school, or helped you at the diner, but all I did was skip class with frickin’ Brandon Maxwell.”
“Oh, hon,” my mom coos softly. “I don’t blame you for anything. You were just a kid. And when your dad left, it hit both of us hard. You were just trying your best.”
“But I’m still that same kid, Mom,” I say, defeated.
“Well, I remember you as a little boy. And now, when I look at you, I see a young man. Whether you feel it or not, you’ve grown. And whether you know it or not, you’ve changed.” my Mom explains gently.
“I just don't know what to do,” I sigh. “I thought when I got older, this would all make more sense.”
“I don’t have all the answers, Will. And neither did your father. We both made a mountain of mistakes. And the biggest mistake he ever made was never getting to know the amazing, creative child we had made.” my Mom says.
So I was wrong. The hereditary wisdom I had been waiting to be passed down to me would never come. In fact, it had never existed.
“It feels like I’ve been stuck in my own head my whole life,” I say. “When dad left, it was like I was…nothing, no one. So I made myself feel like I was everything, like I was the thing everyone wanted. It ruined my relationships, obviously. I couldn’t keep a job because I thought I was so self-important that any little thing that bothered me became a crisis. And then…I wanted to avoid facing the real world so badly that I ended up hurting my best friend.”
"Why are you afraid to face reality?” my Mom asks.
“Because…” My mouth feels numb, and my face feels hot. “...it means I have to face the fact that I’m not who I think I am in my head.”
"I don’t know who you think you are in there,” my Mom says, wagging her finger at my forehead. “But I think you’re pretty great. You aren’t your thoughts. You’re your actions. You can never be the ideal, perfect person in your head. You can become even better.”
Tears fall from my eyes and slide down my cheeks. The tightness in my throat eases, and it feels like I can breathe again. The light dancing in the window seems to grow brighter, even if just for a moment.
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