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I push open the door to my apartment late at night, attempting to be as quiet as possible so as not to wake anyone. The blue light from the television screen creates a halo effect on one wall. The golden glow emanating from outside streetlamps offers the only other source of light. My keys scrape the wall when I hang them, a sound that in daylight wouldn’t be heard, but somehow in the still of night echoes loudly through the apartment.
My mom’s sleepy head rises from the sofa, a dark blot. “You’re back. How was your trip?”
“Hell.”
“What?”
I circle around and collapse onto the club chair beside the sofa. “It was hell.” And it was. As soon as she turned me down, the second woman to say no to my marriage proposal, I wanted to get the hell out of London. The change fee was higher than staying in a crap hotel for one night. What the fuck had I been thinking?
“Tell me about it.”
Fuck. I slam my back against the chair, not entirely on purpose, and close my burning eyes. I can’t sleep on planes. I barely fit into those cramped, tiny coach seats. “I asked her to marry me. She said no.”
A gasp reverberates across the room from the sofa. “You asked her to marry you?”
“Yes.” And of course, she said no. Why do I keep thinking someone would want to spend her life with me?
“Honey, I didn’t realize you were that close with her. That you were talking marriage.”
I can’t believe this. “You’re the one who told me to go after her!”
“Well, yes. But wait, did you think I meant for you to propose?”
“What did you mean? You were all ‘give her a reason to come back.’”
“I meant to tell her you loved her. That you had fallen for her. Tell her you wanted to see where things went.”
“Oh. Well, I had already done all that. But no need to worry. We know how she feels now. I put it all out there. Offered her everything, like her dad said. Like you said. She said no.” But she did offer to invest in my company. As if it was a consolation. No, I won’t spend the rest of my life with you, but here’s a small investment to wish you well on future endeavors.
“Honey.” Her mother voice sounds exactly the same as it did when I was a kid. Back when she kept Toll House chocolate chips on reserve for bad days.
I jump up and stretch my arms to the ceiling. “It’s late. Do you want to stay here? Stay in my room, and I’ll take the sofa.”
She doesn’t respond, but I set about gathering a comforter and pillow. All I want is to stretch out and fall asleep. When I return to the sofa with my bedtime goods, she doesn’t move. She’s going to need to, because I’m ready to crash.
“Honey.”
Aw, fuck, she wants to talk. “Mom, I’m tired.”
“Hear me out.”
Like the good son I am, I sit.
“I love that you put your heart out there. I love that you are so willing to give someone every part of you. But I want you to consider why it is you jump to marriage as a solution. I know you. You always look for solutions, but why do you think marriage is the solution?”
“That’s what women want, right? How else are you supposed to...? What did you mean when you told me to give her a reason to come home?”
“I just meant to tell her how you feel. To tell her what you love about her. To tell her that you could see a future. That you are willing to work for that future. Had the two of you ever talked about marriage?”
“No.” I don’t have a lot of experience with relationships, and the fact that my mother is sitting here on my sofa asking these questions highlights that glaring fact.
“What did you do for a ring?”
Now she sounds amused, and that pisses me off.
“I bought one.” What does she think I did?
“But if you hadn’t been talking about it, how did you know what kind of ring she’d like? Or her ring size?”
“I figured she’d exchange it and get what she wanted. I bought a ring that reminded me of her.” It wasn’t a giant rock, but that’s not really Delilah. It was a platinum band in what they call a classic Tiffany style. Simple and elegant. A few times, I’d wondered if the ring was the issue. If she expected something grander. Or more unique. But I’m fairly certain she never even looked at the ring. No. She was backing away. Not the first time that’s happened to me.
“Mom, I’m exhausted. And Kara’s gonna be up early, and then I’ve got a full day of work.”
She leans over and kisses my forehead, like I’m her little boy. At the door, she pulls on her boots. “I’d rather sleep in my bed, so I’m going to head home.”
“It’s late. Just stay here.”
“No. You sleep in your bed. I’ll pick Kara up from school. I feel like a cold is coming on, and I’m gonna pick up some echinacea on the way home.”
“Are you sure? I can go out and get you something.”
She reaches up to caress my cheek then pats it as if I’m a dog. “I live two blocks away. I’m gonna stop at the market on the way home.” She leans down and picks up her overnight bag, which I now see she had already packed and left by the door. I won’t be able to change her mind.
“Thank you for watching Kara. Thank you for everything, Mom.”
“Honey.” God, I wish she would quit using that word. There is something about the way she says it that grates my insides. “I love you. But let me share a little something to think about.” She holds up her hand as if I’m about to stop her, but I’m not. I’m always respectful to her. Outwardly.
“Marriage isn’t the goal. The goal is to find someone who makes you happy, who makes you a better person. Someone you want to spend your extra time with. A partner in life, to share the ups and downs. Someone you want to commit to. Marriage is a document. And before you sign that document, or offer that commitment to anyone, you need to be certain you have all those other things in play. Because it’s hard.”
I am ready for this conversation to be over. Mom, being Mom, knows this, and continues to pat me to keep my attention.
“Relationships are hard. I liked Delilah, but there’s no guarantee she was the one. You guys jumped into things so fast. You needed time. Time with her. Fights with her, over little things and big things. You’ve got to put in time before you know for sure.”
Tell that to Delilah’s dad. He certainly has a different spin on it.
Mom reaches for the doorknob, signaling this nightmare of a day is about to end.
“Honey.” Please stop. “One day, you are going to find the right person. Give it time.”
Finally, the door closes behind her. I crash in my bed, and as predicted, at the crack of dawn I’m awoken by a squealing four-year-old with horrible breath jumping up and down on top of me. She lands a knee directly into my abdomen that sends me curling forward. But it’s so good to see my little girl, I don’t mind at all.