Dear Mom,
Dad says I can write have to write can write to you now …
Dear Mom,
Why are you still there? You said these programs usually take eight weeks, but that you were going to work really, really hard. That means that you should have been your overachiever self and finished early—one week should have done the trick. But you’re not done. You’re not home. That means you’re not working hard after all …
Dear Mom,
Home isn’t the same without you …
“Argh!” I crumple up the latest version of my letter and throw it across the room. I try to aim for my garbage can, but it doesn’t even get near the rim. It lays there on the floor with all the other crushed-up balls. There’s a whole family over there now.
I’ve been trying to write this letter for days and I’ve barely made it past the first paragraph. Everything sounds either too whiny or too angry. I want Mom to know I miss her, but not too much. I want her to know how much she hurt me, but I don’t want to discourage her. I want …
I want her to be the old Mom, the one who used to order ginormous lobsters with me whenever we went to Cape Cod, then spent the entire meal waving those little claws at Dad while we pretended to be Lobster Lady and her sidekick, Red.
The one who knew more about Harry Potter than practically all my friends and won our town library’s trivia contest wearing her Hufflepuff shirt and time-turner necklace.
The one who should have found a way to be in touch with me this past week, even though it was against the rules.
Because that’s what moms do. They stick around. They find a way to come home, even when the rest of the world—or their own minds—are pulling them away. They don’t need letters written to them, because they’re already there with a hug or a kiss or even a hand squeeze.
At the very least, they magically send vibes across town so their daughters know what to write in potentially the most important letter of their lives!
For a second, I’m tempted to yell down to Dad and ask him what I should write. I’m sure he knows the answer from one of those books he’s been reading.
“Start out with how much you miss her,” he’d say. “Then talk about your life. Maybe share a happy memory. Then end with how proud you are of her. How excited you are for the future.”
His idea sounded good, like it could be read as a voiceover in some serious movie, accompanied by dramatic music. There’d be a split screen, with the mom on one side, reading the letter as tears pour down her (newly sober) face. On the other side, the daughter would be writing on fancy stationery, her tongue between her lips in concentration. She’d look up at the camera and stare into space, then smile fondly as memories washed over her. The music would swell and the picture would shift to their tearful reunion and “happily ever after.”
The problem is, I can’t get my pen to write those perfect words. I’m just using a plain old BIC pen, with a sheet of paper ripped out of my notebook, complete with those little fuzzies on the left side, the ones Mrs. Fink always yells at us about if we don’t cut them off before turning in our homework.
“It’s a sign of unprofessionalism,” she says. “Messy papers show me that you don’t respect your work or your audience.”
I stare at the little fuzzies, then run my finger over them until they’re soft and even fuzzier. I should have fancy stationery for this letter. I should have an expensive pen, too. Maybe one of those fountain pens with the pointy tips. It should be green ink, too, since that’s Mom’s favorite color.
I jump off my bed and rummage through my desk. All of a sudden, it feels like the most important thing in the world that this letter be perfect. Perfect message, perfect penmanship, perfect office supplies. Maybe I should type it. My handwriting isn’t the greatest.
“Where is that paper?” I look through the top drawer of my desk, then all the side drawers. Nothing. I know I had stationery here somewhere. It was light blue with my name on the top in fancy cursive writing. There was a lighthouse on the bottom of every sheet, too.
My letter would look awesome on that stationery.
It has to be in there.
I check the storage boxes in the back of my closet, but all I see are old Legos, dolls, and craft supplies.
“Dad?” I poke my head out the door. My voice and my hands are both shaking.
“Yeah?”
“Do you know where my stationery is? The stuff you and Mom got me for Christmas a few years ago?” My eyes dart around the hallway, like the stationery will magically fall out of the air.
Dad’s voice echoes back from down the hall. “We got you stationery?”
Of course Dad doesn’t know where it is. Dad usually doesn’t even buy the Christmas presents. That’s Mom’s job. Along with knowing where basically everything in this house is.
Mom’s not here, though. Which means that no one is doing her job.
I comb through the rest of the house, my movements becoming more and more frantic. I dig through Dad’s desk. I rifle through the junk drawer, tossing papers and pens on the floor.
I can’t find anything, though.
I scream in frustration and pound my fists on the counters. It hurts, but it doesn’t hurt as much as my heart does.
“Veronica? Are you okay?”
I don’t answer. I can’t answer.
I just run up the stairs and collapse onto my bed, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes. I know that I’m not crying over a few sheets of paper. Not really.
But I also need that lighthouse stationery. It’s the only thing that will help right now, the light drawing me away from the rocks of my own sadness.
I cry until I don’t have any tears left, then write letter after letter, way past my bedtime.