I worked harder on collecting my thoughts and writing them out more than I did my actual schoolwork. I had a hard time not crying at the thought of not repairing our relationship. Mom was such an important person to me in my life, and although we’d had our differences, I never wanted her out of my life. But I also had to recognize that it might have to come to that.

                The millionth sigh escaped me as I read over my poorly constructed bullet-point list I’d made on a notepad on my laptop, the points feeling more and more unnatural sounding the more I recited them in my head. I literally mimicked myself talking—in my head, not wanting to disturb my roommate—complete with hand gestures and emphasis. Then sometimes I’d feel too robotic and tried to redo them with more emotion. Then I tried to let emotion dictate my thoughts before feeling overwhelmed and crying into my pillow all over again.

                I called both Moriah and Ramona on their perspectives one more time, and both gave me similar advice. Don’t be afraid to speak my mind, as long as I let my mom give her perspective as well and be very open to it. Don’t treat it as a lecture, but a dialogue. Both sides need perspective. When I expressed doubt that Mom would treat our discourse the same way, it was a bit more mixed. Ramona insisted that I trust my mom, and that for us to thrive as a relationship, we needed to get out of our comfort zone and believe each other, even if it was hard to do so. She emphasized that no one was perfect at getting our point across exactly how we intended, and if either of us got frustrated, it wasn’t an indicator of actual perspective, just emotions running high. Moriah, meanwhile, said that if I felt my voice wasn’t being heard, to respectfully call her out, to politely remind her that the intent was to have a back and forth, not a lecture on either side. If she wasn’t respecting my side, I had the right to cast judgement on her. Moriah explained how the point of the conversation was to have a proof of concept of whether Mom and I could have a calm and insightful perspective on my powers—being careful not to actually say the word “powers” over the phone—and if we couldn’t get through one conversation like that, it was hard to imagine this being a respectful relationship in the first place.

                The thing with my mom was she was historically very up and down with her arguments. There was no denying that the argument we’d had a month and a half ago now was the worst we’d ever had. Never before had she been so immovable and closed-minded than our last argument. But even excluding that, I felt Mom had been slowly getting worse with her nagging and policing over me, perhaps as a result of my aging. When I was younger, she was supportive, but realistic. If I had wild aspirations, she’d lay into me how far reaching those dreams were, but she’d still ask me if it was something I’d be willing to work towards. She knew that I was young and was just reaching for the stars, but also seemed to like the idea of her son somehow doing the impossible. Back when I was a toddler, I’d obsessed over the reality of one day being an astronaut. Mom had bought fully into it, placating my childish silliness by throwing space-themed birthday parties and frequent tours to the planetarium. But she also stayed realistic, never forgetting to remind me that being an astronaut was hard work, and that I’d need to fully commit to it. She was fair and supportive nonetheless, so I never felt intimidated. It was my decision, not hers, when I eventually gave up that dream after declaring how much I hated math and nearly failing first grade. That support she gave for my goals seemed to become less and less supportive as I grew older. She’d start dissuading me from my more childish habits, like going to comic book stores, playing video games, or staying over at a friend’s house. Normally I’d chalk those up to just being a responsible parent, but she’d be a bit passive-aggressive with her remarks, claiming how a “real adult” wouldn’t do the things I did. Again, never outright forbidding me from doing anything, but no longer as outwardly supportive.

                There were two major points that I think really made things worse. The first was when I elected not to go to church after Dad convinced Mom to let us kids have the option. She never forced us to go back, but it’s clear that she’d held us to a higher standard ever since. Her approval rating of things we liked sunk like a brick. It was as though the moment we left the church, our morality was immediately tainted, and our opinions on anything needed Mom’s approval. It was then when Mom’s babying me became relentless, despite me being in my late teens. Things like getting driving lessons, applying for a part-time job, touring and applying for colleges, had been heavily monitored by her, and wouldn’t go forward until she gave her seal of approval. As usual though, her points were backed up by plenty of realistic reasoning. That was the infuriating part. She’d be overly protective and motherly, but she’d always be right. It was weird because it felt like she was cocky about everything, but she’d never shove whether she was right in your face, unless the mistake you made was bad enough. Like when I’d gotten into the generator in Boston.

                Things only got worse when I first told her about Lizzie.

                Maybe I’d been stretching Mom’s limit a little bit when it came to her, but I didn’t care. Lizzie was the first major life choice I’d made without any parental oversight. So, it was the first time that I made a decision I knew she’d vehemently disapprove of, when I told her we were planning on having protected sex. She certainly flipped a lid, and until recently, it was by far our biggest direct fight. It was a decision I’d decided to make for fun, not for my own wellbeing. I knew I was being more irresponsible than I could’ve been, but at the same time, it wasn’t like I was the only person in the world sleeping with his girlfriend. It was normal, and I wanted to get closer to Lizzie in the process. It wasn’t like I was being reckless and ignoring obvious safety measures; I trusted myself to take things seriously. But Mom never let go of her iron grip from then on. Anytime Lizzie and I tried to make the drive to hang out in person, she’d never let us be alone together. We’d always be supervised by Mom or Ramona or Doyle, or we’d have to babysit James or Eliza. Meanwhile, she started harping on Lizzie’s family, finding every flaw she could in them to coerce me into putting doubt into my mind about my relationship. All that without directly ever stating her frustration with Lizzie herself. Like I said, very passive.

                One might wonder why I’d even want to repair a relationship such as this.

                The truth lies in the in-betweens of these fights. As much as I hated Mom’s nagging, and as much as I hated how passive she could be… she was still my biggest fighter in life. Maybe my life decisions were a bit wonky in her head, but she’d always support me socially. She’d listen to every bad day I’d have at school and be there for hugs. She’d been a caretaker for our family, making sure we had plenty of vacations and family outings together. She’d shown up to every one of our school events, like James’s basketball games or Eliza’s debate club meets. When it came down to things, she was a mother. An overprotective mother, one with occasional bouts of overcontrol, but a mother, nonetheless. Some of my friends growing up had talked about the fact that they were without a parent in their life, be it from death or separation, and how they wished they could have a mother like others did. I couldn’t imagine myself in the same scenario.

                And unless we worked this out, I was going to find out what it was like.

                Approaching this conversation meant taking everything into account. Not just how I felt but trying to figure out how she felt as well. I’d separated my notes into two sections labelled “How I feel” and “How she (probably) feels”. Right now, the list under “How I feel” was much bigger, as it was way easier listing every single random spitball emotion I was feeling. At first, I was holding back some points from the list since I was emotional and probably just throwing anything out there, but then I stopped myself, realizing that if I wrote it down, then there was some deep part of me that really felt that way. I just had to figure out the why. Coming up with those was equally challenging, but eventually, I felt like I’d covered everything, and moved on to trying to list down what I thought she’d felt.

                It was eye-opening to think from someone else’s perspective, especially when I disagreed with her on so many levels. It started to deflate me as I started to consider the reasons behind her words, the truth behind her attempts to control me. And a lot of it had to do with her innate fear for her family’s safety, and the uncontrollable need to be the one in charge so that she could be that safety on our behalf. She was a forever no-half-measure kind of mother, and when anything veered off path from what she knew and trusted, she’d get incredibly uncomfortable. So perhaps to help her stay comfortable during this conversation, I needed to address that side of her, to let her know how much I valued mine and my family’s safety. If she knew that I wasn’t some uncontrollable force that wielded dangerous power I couldn’t contain, maybe she’d let go of her shields a bit and we could talk like normal adults.

                And maybe she could learn to trust me every now and then.

                The thing was, Mom wasn’t good at letting others take the wheel for their solutions. When my powers were exposed to her, she’d panicked, and instead of letting me explain myself, she’d gone and taken control. She didn’t trust me to take care of myself and not use my powers in a way that could harm me, her, or our family. And the more I thought about it, this wasn’t the only thing she’d distrusted me with. She didn’t trust me to take a vacation with my girlfriend alone for the longest time. She didn’t trust me to maintain a healthy lifestyle during college, or that I’d keep up with my schoolwork. She didn’t trust me to be safe with Lizzie as we got physical. The more of an adult I became, the less she trusted.

                That, I realized, had been the root of the problem all along.

                Why that was, I wasn’t sure. Maybe a combination of her getting older, and me not following the same steps that she did when she grew up. Maybe it was because I occasionally pushed her buttons and broke through her comfort zone on occasion. Maybe it was Dad’s aloofness and the combination of having three children to take care of her whole life taking a toll on her. Regardless of her reasons, recapturing her trust was integral. If we were to work, it would need to be built on a relationship of trust.

                Which got me thinking about what I ultimately wanted from Mom by the end of the conversation.

                It wasn’t just that I wanted her to love me as I was, and for us to be mother and son again. There was a lot more that I needed for us to work again. Trust, as mentioned before, but I also needed to find that delicate balance of independence and reliance. I was at a point in my life where I was transitioning out of school, and Lizzie and I were already making plans to move out into a house together somewhere—not even mentioning our attempt at getting engaged. Soon, I’d be living on my own anyways, and Mom wouldn’t be in the picture as much anyways. But I still wanted her advice on things, as most new adults do. I hadn’t solved most of life’s barrage of issues that were going to come my way and having her as an avenue to support me was instrumental. Likely, that would come simply by being on good terms with each other, but it was worth mentioning.

                To me though, the biggest thing I wanted to establish between Mom and I was a supportive relationship where I could talk about my powers openly with her. I wasn’t expecting her to give advice, just to be an ear for when I desperately needed one. I wasn’t someone who liked hiding things, especially from people who already knew about my powers. I wanted to tell Mom everything about my life, how I was growing into my powers, how I was finding cool ways to use them, and I even envisioned myself rolling my eyes when she fussed over me and myself insisting that I was being safe, and that I had people who I trusted backing me up. I wanted Mom to meet Moriah and Cole and Hazel and especially Dr. Vik. I wanted her to be a part of my supernatural world, as scary and as uncomfortable as it was. Part of me was nervous about that though. Would she be capable of keeping my secret? Would the increase in my power make her nervous enough that she breaks the secret on my behalf?

                Did I trust her?

                Welp, add that to the list of things in the conversation. Trust went both ways, and if I wanted her to trust me, I also needed to trust her.

                I rubbed my neck and realized just how stiff I’d been for the last half hour. I sighed, stood out of my chair and stretched my arms and legs in an effort to loosen them up a bit. I hadn’t realized just how intense I’d gotten in my own head. I’d talked myself into so many angles that I was back to hating myself for my own thought process. I was expecting so much trust from my mom without giving an ounce of a thought to wonder if I trusted her back. I mentally slapped myself for not recognizing my newfound hypocrisy earlier.

                My head ached. I needed to go to bed.

                And that’s how I spent the last of my school year on repeat. Each night I’d return to this document of arguments, I’d beat myself up over them, and then I’d go to sleep, feeling more stressed out than I did the day prior.