Page 66 of Love Me
I nod vigorously. My mom scoots over, making room for my dad to fold himself into the bench across from me.
I love seeing them together. It doesn’t even gross me out that my closer-to-fifty-than-not-year-old mother feeds my father a fish taco.
“You two,” I groan and roll my eyes for show, however.
“Sorry, Short Stuff. I’ve missed your mom. I’ve had to put in some long hours over the past few days.”
“I’m just teasing.” My mom deserves all of the love and tenderness he gives her.
Even as I watch them together, though, I can’t help the sadness that starts to sprout in my chest. Women like Sharia McClure will never get their happy ending. Too many to count have never gotten the opportunity they deserve to shine or live a happy life.
A call I took at the center today comes back to mind. The girl’s voice on the other end was barely a whisper and full of so much pain.
Another voice shattered and stolen.
“Does Saturday sound good, baby?” My mother’s voice catches my attention.
“I’m sorry, what?” I blink, trying to cover the moisture in my eyes.
My mother cocks her head to the side and looks at me with concern.
I smile. “I just got caught up thinking about the gallery. I’m sorry. What did you ask?”
“Dinner this Saturday at home,” she repeats.
“I’ll buy those lemon bars I used to buy you when you were a little girl,” my dad adds. “You know that bakery spot is still open.”
I give him the brightest smile I can manage.
“I don’t think I can this weekend.” My mom’s shoulders instantly deflate. “There are a few potential artists I’m meeting at an art fair. And there are a ton of design issues for the gallery I have to work on,” I rush to tell her.
“My Short Stuff is so ambitious,” my father says. “We’re so proud of you,” he finishes, mimicking the words I told my mother only minutes ago.
“Well, if it’s for work,” mom says, reluctance in her voice. “How about next weekend?”
“Um, I should be available. I’ll call you and let you know.”
“Monique,” she says, her voice growing a little stronger. “I know you’re busy starting a new business, but we all would like to see more of you.”
She holds up her hand when I got to speak.
“I don’t want to be that pestering mom who’s always nagging their kids about not calling or dropping by enough. But you are a lot closer now and sometimes it feels like you’re still as far away as you were in New York.”
My stomach ties in knots. How can I tell her that sometimes it feels like I’m that far away, too? Unfortunately, that would open a can of worms that I can’t confront her with.
“Your mother’s right, baby girl,” my father adds, piling on the guilt.
I know they’re not doing it on purpose. The two people sitting across from me love me more than anyone else in the world. I shouldn’t be hurting them the way I am.
“I’m sorry. I’ll be there next weekend. And I’ll make more of an effort to spend time with you … all of you,” I say.
They both reach across the table and take one of my hands.
“We love you,” my mom says.
“I love you, too.” I manage to get the words out, but how can I explain to her that her love also makes me feel guilty. Almost ashamed of even existing?
Thankfully, my father lightens the mood by telling a funny story about Damian.