“I’m sorry.”
We work in excruciating silence. I deserve every uncomfortable second of it.
“I think you did it on purpose,” she says. Her voice is calm and quiet.
“Mom, I swear I—”
“Hear me out, Tabitha. Sometimes you can do things accidentally on purpose.”
I don’t respond because I have no idea what she means. I’ve only ever used that phrase as a joke, like when I would accidentally-on-purpose do things to bug Grace.
“There’s a word for it,” she says. “I forget it exactly, but maybe trauma response?”
“Mom, no. My life hasn’t been nearly interesting enough for me to claim any trauma.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know if trauma means what we think it means. Like war or bad accidents or anything violent. It can mean…”
I glance at her when she trails off, but she’s wearing her concentration expression, like she’s working through what she wants to say.
“It can mean you’ve had an overbearing mother with unreasonable expectations of you because she’s trying to live through you vicariously. And maybe as she’s pushing you to go further, she makes you feel like you’re never good enough. And so maybe you hardly ever come home anymore—”
“Because I’m busy, Mom, that’s all.” I hate hearing her sound so sad.
“Or because you know it’s a place where you’ll always feel like you’re lacking. Maybe yesterday, when you were in town, you told yourself you would stop by, but some deeper part of you, the part that tries to keep you safe, it drew you out on the road and past our neighborhood, and you got back to your happy place.”
I’ve completely stopped pounding crackers. “Have you been talking to Natalie? That smells like therapy.”
She smiles and looks almost proud of herself. “No, but I’ve been seeing a counselor. Turns out your dad being sick was trauma for me too. And I’ve beenyourtrauma.”
“No, Mom, you haven’t.”
“I have. But I had a chance to figure a lot of this out with Grace last Christmas. I’ve thought about it ever since. It wasn’t hard to figure out how it applied to you and me since it was the same thing.”
At some point, the kitchen got quiet, and I realize it’s only the two of us left. Lisa must have tactfully slipped out and taken her helpers with her.
I feel bad. The last thing she needs is my family drama disrupting her gala preparations, but this conversation with my mom is important.
“Grace mentioned you’d talked some things through.”
She stops smashing crackers. “I know you have lots to do. I really am here to help, and I don’t want to hijack this whole day with family drama. Here’s what I’ll say, and then we better go get Lisa and get back to work: I love you. I’m sorry I’ve been judgmental about your career choices. That was about my stuff, not yours. I’m proud of you.”
She goes back to crushing. I watch her, surprised, my hands full of crackers. Surprised…and overwhelmed. I’ve needed these words for a long time. My whole life. I had no idea I would get them today, and I almost can’t take them in.
She smiles. “It’s a lot. You don’t need to say anything. I love you. We can talk about this another time. Now that Dad’s better, maybe I can even come see you for a few days in New York?”
She’s suggested coming to visit in the past, but I’ve always put her off with excuses about a busy taping schedule or promotional obligations. But this time, I nod. “I’d like that.”
“Okay. Good. Tell Lisa she’s safe to return.”
I find her sitting at a dining table, reviewing the schedule for the day. “Sorry about that. We’re done. Come on in.”
My mom and I get back to work. And that’s it. She doesn’t push the issue, and she hangs out for a couple more hours helping before she needs to get back home to handle one of her real estate clients.
When she leaves, I give her a hug. A big one. The biggest one I’ve given her in years. And I’ve already set aside a weekend next month for her to come visit.
I walk her out to her car and wave as she drives off.
Well. This has certainly been a week for emotional bombshells.
