Mom is cozied up in the big chair by the front window, knitting, when I come home. “Hey,” she says, motioning me over. Her voice is thick, like she’s been crying.
I perch on the ottoman and pretend to ignore her remnant teariness. “Hey.”
“Was that Matt who dropped you off?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Matt’s in youth group?”
“No, he just came with me today.”
“That’s my little evangelist,” Mom says, smiling.
My stomach aches all of a sudden. “It’s not like that. And I don’t want to talk about it.”
“So how was it?” she asks gently.
“Cloying.”
She laughs and rubs her nose with her wrist. “Well, I’m glad you stuck it out.”
“Sure.” She doesn’t need to know that I didn’t.
Mom puts little hats on the ends of her knitting needles. “Do you need more to eat?”
“Nah, I’m stuffed.” I pat my stomach theatrically. It’s what she wants to hear, not that I barely touched my plate and then we bailed. “I still have homework,” I add, which is true, but it’s not like I’m actually going to rush upstairs and do it.
“Okay,” she says. “Let me know if you need anything.”
It’s a funny thing for her to say, since that’s kind of our whole relationship—me being like, “Mom!” and her doing whatever after that. I guess when you hear something said enough times it becomes easy to start saying it, too.
“Yeah.” My lips brush the side of her face.
She touches my cheek.
“It was weird that she wasn’t there,” I say. “Even though she wouldn’t have been anyway. So maybe that made it kind of normal?”
Mom takes my hand. “What are we going to do?” she whispers.
For that, I have no answer.