Page 49 of Like You Know
She was staring up at me, a million different emotions in her clear eyes. The one I could make out clearly was resolve. Whatever this was, my mother was on a mission.
It made me deeply uncomfortable.
I still couldn’t walk away. When was the last time she’d even mentioned Dad, not in response to something I’d said—and sober?
She’d been sober for weeks, I realized. Obviously, I’d been avoiding her and what’s-his-face like the plague, but every time I’d bumped into her in the house, she’d been sober.
“Something I should’ve done a long time ago. Something I should’ve been doing all along.” She smiled sadly.
“What the fuck are you talking about, Vivian?” I crossed my arms but turned to face her despite myself.
“I’m making sure you know your father.”
What?My breathing sped up as I glanced up the stairs. Half of me wanted to run away from whatever this bizarre conversation was, and the other half wanted to stay, hear more, ask a million questions.
As if she could sense my instinct to bolt, Mom kept talking. “When your dad died, it broke me. He was the love of my life, and I literally didn’t know how to exist without him. But that’s not an excuse for how horribly I’ve failed you as a mother. I have not been here—physically or any other way. I know that. And I am so very deeply sorry, Amaya.”
I gaped at her, my brain struggling to process what I was hearing. In total shock, I flopped down on the stairs. She was actually admitting it? She was sorry?What?
Mom scooted her butt up two steps so she was sitting next to me. “You’ve grown into an amazing, capable, smart young woman, and I missed it. Parents say that all the time—blink and you’ll miss them growing up—but I really did miss it all. And I can’t tell you how much I regret that. I regret so many things, especially not talking about your father. I see a lot of him in you, and I should’ve kept his memory alive. I should’ve been here to talk about him and show you pictures and tell you stories. Instead, I ...”
She trailed off, and I forced the lump in my throat down before speaking. “Instead, you were off self-medicating and pretending like it had never happened. Pretending you didn’t have a daughter.”
“You’re right.” She nodded, resigned. “You reminded me so much of him. You still do.”
“And that makes it OK? How is that my fault?” I could feel the anger rising along with my tone. This was it—she’d yell at me, and we’d end up in a pointless fight like usual. At least it was familiar territory.
Except she didn’t yell. She wiped at the moisture under her eyes and spoke in a calm, if strained, voice. “It’s not. It’s not. I’m just trying to be honest with you, Amaya. And to apologize. I’m sorry.”
“You think that’s going to fix everything?” I gripped the step on either side of my hips. “You can’t just say ‘oops! I fucked up for seven years straight. My bad!’ and expect everything to be OK.”
“Of course not.” Once again, she didn’t let her anger rise to meet mine. It stumped me—again. “I know an apology is not going to fix all the pain I’ve caused you, all the damage I’ve done to our relationship. Maybe nothing will, but as long as I’m breathing, I’m going to show you with my actions and my words that I’m serious. I want to repair our relationship, and I’m going to be here. I’m going to keep trying, keep showing you as long as I live. And I know those are just words too, that it’s going to take time for you to start to believe me, but I’m going to prove it to you. I love you, Amaya, and I want to be in your life.”
What the fuck was I supposed to do with that? How dare she spring this emotional clusterfuck on me when I was mad at her? Although I’d been mad at her for years now, so maybe that was neither here nor there.
I stared at the grain in the wooden step beneath my feet. This was exactly what I’d wanted to hear from her since ... I didn’t even know when. It had been years. But I was too jaded—I couldn’t trust her.
But I wanted this so badly. I hated to admit it, even to myself, but I wanted my mom.
“I can’t pretend like none of it ever happened,” I told the wood grain, my voice low. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her nodding. “And I’m not ready to forgive you. I don’t know if I’ll ever be.” More nodding and a stuttering inhale from my mom that made my own throat tighten. “But I’ve wanted to hear you say some of this stuff for a long time. I’m just not sure if I can trust you yet.”
For a few long moments, we sat in silence.
I sighed. “I am sorry I said I wished you’d died instead of Dad though. That was harsh.”
She chuckled—a watery, emotional release of tension—and I finally looked into her eyes.
“Way harsh,” she agreed. “But I probably deserved it.”
I shrugged, not disagreeing. Still, wishing death on someone was pretty fucked up, and if I was being honest, it had been playing on my mind.
“Can we have dinner together?” she asked tentatively. “If you don’t have plans. We can just get takeout, nothing fancy. And I’ll send Cal out for the night. I don’t want to force him on you, and I’m sorry about how that situation has gone down too.”
I rolled my eyes. “He can have greasy burgers with us if it’s not below his high standards. It’s fine.”
“Great!” My mom beamed. I hadn’t seen her look so happy since I was in elementary school.
“What’s brought on this sudden change?” I had to ask. “You get a personality transplant or something?”