I come home from writing at the library to an empty house. Mom has class tonight, so I pull last night’s leftovers from the fridge.
While they’re heating up, I grab a new notebook from my bag and start to look over what I wrote that day. When I hear the front door, I assume Papi’s back, but it’s Mom.
We’ve been civil for the last week, speaking to each other when necessary, only when Papi’s around as a buffer.
I close the notebook. “Papi’s on a job. I thought you had class.”
She sets her stuff down, pulls something from her bag, and comes to sit on the barstool next to me. She sets my Moleskine notebook on the counter between us. “Student walkout to protest gun violence. Good on them. I wish I had the energy to join in, but I’m so tired.”
I look at her face—really look. She’s not the kind of tired a good night of sleep would fix. Or even a week at a spa. She’s the tired of a woman who’s been shoving her own shit down so she could keep her head above it and try to protect her daughters in a world where they never had a chance, no matter what she did.
She nods at my new notebook. It’s a cheapo spiral-bound from the drugstore with some pages from the hospital notepad taped inside. Turns out words on a page don’t really need a fancy, leather-bound journal. “You’re still writing.”
“Were you forbidding me from ever writing again?”
“Of course not. It was foolish of me to think taking this notebook would stop you from working on your story.” She pushes it toward me.
“Did you . . . did you read it?”
“Sweetheart, no! I would never. Not without your permission. I promise.”
Which makes me feel like shit, since I went into her stuff without her permission. Even if I had a good reason.
“You should keep writing it,” she says. “If it’s helping you. But . . . talk to us about it too. Or a therapist, if you want. There has to be some balance, you know?”
“What changed your mind?”
She sighs. “What you said about my own history, the teacher—”
“Mom, I’m so sorry about that, it’s none of my business—”
A quick shake of her head shuts me up. “I kept waiting until you girls were old enough. I planned to tell you. But then you were old enough and I still kept putting it off. I couldn’t see what use it would do. I had raised two awesome young women. Young feminists. Knowing my pain would only hurt us all.
“But it is a part of my story. And I want to tell you girls. Together. If you think Nor would want to know.”
“I think she would. When you’re ready.”
She pats my hand, then gets up to investigate the leftovers situation.
“I’m heating up the enchiladas,” I offer. “If you want some.”
The surprise on her face kills me a little, but I get it. “That would be great. Thank you.”
“Do you know if Jess went back to San Francisco?”
She puts water on for tea. “They did not. They’re staying with Summer’s parents. They feel awful about whatever happened between you two and that’s all I’m authorized to say.”
“Thank you for being there for them.”
“Their parents are going through a lot. So Papi and I are trying to step up. I’m sorry if it’s weird for you—”
“It’s not. I mean, it doesn’t have to be.”
She nods and busies herself in the cupboard, organizing the mess of tea boxes.
“Mom, I really am so sorry. I said awful things to you. I’ve been a terrible friend to Jess. I really screwed up with the hashtag—”
She gives me her full attention, leaning across the counter to grab my hand. “There’s no road map for this. Just because it’s happened to a million women before Nor, before me, that doesn’t mean anyone knows how to process it when it happens to them. You’ve had your own trauma in this.” She gives a quick shake of her head to stop my objection. “I’m not saying it’s the same; I’m saying it’s valid. And yeah, you’ve messed some stuff up. So have I. But we keep trying. We keep loving each other. That’s all we can do.”