Page 140 of Love Me
“Then he wasn’t right for you.” My mother takes my face into her hands. “A lifetime commitment is filled with ups and downs. You think you’re the only one who has the potential to become sick? What if one day on the way home from work Diego gets into a car accident and becomes seriously injured? Are you going to leave him?”
“Of course not,” I answer without needing to think about it.
“Or if all of a sudden he received a scary medical diagnosis. Are you going to treat him like a burden then?”
“Mom.” My voice comes out as almost a whine because she knows the answer.
“No, you won’t,” she answers. “Because love goes beyond illness. When you love someone with your entire heart the way that boy loves you, it’s not a burden to care for you in the ways you need to be cared for.”
She pulls back, lowering her hands from my face to my lap.
“You were never a burden for me. Not because of the way you came to be. Or because of your illness. You filled my life with a love I never knew before you existed.”
With glossy eyes, she looks around my art gallery.
“And I’m so damn proud of you. Let Diego love you with his whole heart, too. Don’t hold back. You both deserve the kind of love your father and I know.”
She brings my hands to her lips and kisses them.
Fresh tears stream down my cheeks. A catharsis I didn’t know I needed.
A beat later, I find myself wrapped up in my mother’s arms. I cling to her tightly. Once again, crying more tears than I thought I had inside of me. I cry for the young woman she was when she became pregnant with me, who fought to keep me and then set her dreams on hold to provide everything I needed.
I also cry for myself. For the seventeen-year-old girl who found out the truth about her conception and developed the sense that she was inherently bad because of it. And the young woman who dated losers because she didn’t believe she was worth more.
More tears are shed for all of the women in my life who I’ve encountered who believed the same thing. For the women whose voices were shouted into a void. The women whose art I may never get a chance to feature in my gallery but who I’ll do my best to ensure they’ll be heard wherever and whenever they can.
When my mother and I finally pull apart, I feel even lighter. Heavy in other ways, though.
“I need to talk to Diego,” I say.
A knowing smile covers her face. “He probably hasn’t gone far.”
“He lives close,” I respond as if she doesn’t know.
She nods. “And if I had to guess—” The ringing of her phone interrupts her. She laughs. “Right on time.” She turns her phone screen to me.
I smile, seeing it’s my dad.
“He’ll want to say hi.” She hands me the phone.
“Hi, Daddy,” I answer.
“Baby girl?” His surprised, deep voice comes through the line.
“Yeah.”
“Your mother’s with you?”
“She’s right here. She stopped by the gallery to drop off some flowers.” I look at the beautiful flowers on the desk.
After a few more pleasantries, I pass the phone to my mother. For a few seconds, I watch the interaction between my mother and dad on the phone. The only father who ever mattered in my life.
Another urge to speak with Diego pushes through me. My mother must realize it as she tells my dad she’s on her way home now.
A hug and promises to talk more, and an invitation to come over for dinner with Diego before my opening night, and the both of us are heading out of the gallery.
We split, going in opposite directions to our cars. I’ve parked in the parking lot about a half of a block away from my art gallery. I typically walk but I needed to carry a few heavy items today.