This will be the last one. It was also the last time. Or at least, the last time for that version of our relationship.
. . .
It happened after we moved from the house by the golf course to the new house, built for my parents as they disagreed over which brick to use for the fireplace (Dad won).
I was in 5th or 6th grade. Had just come through the front door after being dropped off by the school bus. I remember being sweaty.
Mom was sitting at the Eero Saarinen kitchen table, round white plastic with plastic chairs. They were always cold. In summer, my legs stuck to them.
I walked up to her and said, “Hi” or “I’m home” or something. She looked at me, tilted her head. “Whose little girl are you?”
I blinked. “I’m your little girl.”
“No, you’re not my little girl. What’s your name?”
My body was turning cartwheels even though I was just standing there, on that vinyl floor that was supposed to look like bricks.
I got louder. “I’m Jule.” Enunciated. “I’m your little girl.”
Her face remained implacable.
“Where’s your mommy?”
I don’t know how long this back-and-forth lasted, but at some point I started crying. Then threw myself into her lap. She pushed me off. I ran to my bedroom, hoping she wouldn’t come after me, tell me I needed to leave her house and go home to my real mommy.
The second time it happened, I still cried but ran to my bedroom without first throwing myself at her mercy.
The third time, I said nothing. Looked at her. She said nothing more. I went to my bedroom, but didn’t run.
It never happened again.
Some people are surprised that I visit my mom. But she’s not who she was, and neither am I.
Chewing the Cud of Good
Thankful for this dog and that little tooth that makes so many people smile.
0 Comments