I drive past my old middle school, memories of performing in talent shows with my friends and on my own flooding through me as I turn on my mom’s street.
Since I’m coming over unannounced and didn’t ever live here, I feel weird just barging in, so I knock on the front door and wait for her to answer.
She’s wearing jeans and a dirt-streaked T-shirt when she opens the door, her hair hidden beneath a baseball hat she bought when we went down to the San Diego Zoo a few years ago, confusion creasing her face at the sight of me on her doorstep. She immediately steps out and wraps me in a hug. “Oh, Alexis. Why are you knocking? What’s wrong? You look like you’ve been crying. Come inside. You know you can always just come in.”
Even though she told me to come inside, she makes no move to release me, holding me tighter when a sob breaks free of my chest. She whispers nonsense, telling me its alright, that I’m alright, that she’s got me, offering unlimited comfort, and this is what I’ve been needing all day.
All my fighting and problem solving has gotten me nowhere. And right now I just need to cry, and I need my mom to hold me and tell me it’ll be alright.
Eventually we make it inside her house, where she settles me at the table and puts on the kettle to make tea. Because nothing’s more comforting than warm drinks when you’re upset, at least that’s what she always said when I was a kid.
She doesn’t ask anything more significant than what kind of tea I’d like and if I want honey while she bustles around, switching on the electric kettle and opening her pantry door to reveal a shoe organizer hanging off it full of at least fifty different types of tea. She rattles off a bunch of options, and I settle on a cinnamon apple one that sounds good. She gives me a kind smile. “Good choice. I think I’ll have some too.”
When she opens the box, the cinnamon smell fills the small kitchen, and we sit in cozy silence as the kettle heats up. Her house is homey, full of a thousand little touches that show off her personality, from the mismatched painted table and chairs that she picked up second hand and refinished herself to the eclectic pieces of decor lining the walls, a mixture of her own original paintings and artwork she’s bought from local artists over the years. My mom’s always been a great supporter of the arts, even though she often lamented her ability to donate and purchase as much as she would’ve liked over the years. Supporting two kids as a single mom on a dental hygienist’s salary didn’t leave a lot left over, but art and music are good for the soul. And so she always supported my dreams of becoming a musician, even as she worried about sending her daughter off into an industry known to treat women as commodities instead of people.
Once the tea is ready, she brings my mug to me—an earth-toned ceramic mug that would be right at home at one of the art shows she frequents during festival season—and sets a colorful cloth napkin next to it, placing a jar of local honey between us. She waits for me to add honey to my tea and take a sip before broaching the question I know she’s been holding back from asking. “What happened?”
Sighing, I sip my tea again, gathering my courage to tell her the whole sordid story. And I mean the whole story, including the real start of my relationship with Colt, and bringing her up to what might just be the end of it. Because he still hasn’t returned my calls, and neither of my sisters-in-law will either. Gabby hasn’t responded since giving me his parents’ address, despite me asking if she’d heard anything about where he is.
Mom listens in silence for the most part, only broken by the occasional gasp, especially at the beginning when I told her the truth for the first time. But true to form, despite her obvious shock and dismay, she doesn’t come back with any words of judgment or condemnation.
“It sounds like you really care about him,” she says when I finally finish.
I nod, miserable. “I do. I really, really do.” Another fat tear slips down my cheek. I can’t even help it anymore, and now that I’m here, I’ve stopped trying.
Why didn’t I come see my mom sooner? Why did I keep the truth from her for so long? Somehow her lack of judgment just makes me feel worse about lying to her.
“What are you going to do?” she asks, watching me over the rim of her mug as she sips her tea.
I sigh, slumping in my chair, more tears falling. I’m not bothering to try to stop them now. What’s the point, anyway? Holding it in won’t make me feel better.
Crossing my arms, I stare at the honey jar and shake my head slowly. “I dunno, Mom,” I whisper. “I’m not sure what I can do at this point. He won’t return my calls or my texts. I don’t even know where he is.”
Mom stands and comes around behind me, bending down to wrap her arms around me again. “Stay here for now. I’ll make up the guest bedroom. I have an extra toothbrush in the linen closet, and you can borrow some of my clothes. Take all the time you need to figure it out, okay?”
I lay my head on
