was useless. I could figure out the most complex math equations, or understand the internal workings of the nervous system, but to ask me to baste or julienne anything caused anxiety beyond explanation.
My mother set the plates down on the table I’d set for two, the one thing I could do.
"Thank you," I said, sitting down with a glass of water.
"Sure," she responded, sitting across from me.
When I looked up from my plate to praise her for the meal, I found her watching me. It was like she was examining every inch of my face, so intently that it made me want to sink under the table.
"I forgot how much you look like him." Her eyes were glassy and distant―she was looking at me but not at the same time. I bowed my head to escape her sorrowful gaze.
"So, Sara seems like she's an amazing friend," my mother said, her voice suddenly back to normal. I glanced up as she pierced the cut pork chop with her fork.
"Uh, yeah," I responded, shaking off the haunted look in her eye. "She's my best friend."
"I have one of those," my mother smiled. "Sharon." She let out a laugh just thinking about her. "We've done everything together. She usually gets me into trouble, but I have the best stories because of her."
I nodded, trying to remember this woman that seemed to be such a huge part of her life―but came up blank. I realized there wasn't much about my mother that I knew, even from the twelve years she was technically in my life.
It wasn't the howling of the wind or the boards groaning that drew me from my bed that night. Yes, they were the reasons I was still awake, but I was brought to my feet by the clatter of metal crashing outside my door. I found my mother kneeling on the floor with her back to me, trying to stack the framed photographs that were scattered across the hallway.
As I got closer, I could hear her mumbling to herself, clumsily setting one frame on top of the other. When I bent down to help her pick them up, I realized that she was crying.
"Are you okay?" I asked tentatively.
"Huh?" her head shot up. “Oh, Emily, I'm sorry." She sniffled and wiped her red cheeks with her sleeve. "I woke you up."
She blinked heavily, and I sank to the floor with the realization... she was drunk. I spotted the bottle of vodka resting next to the top step and swallowed hard against the disappointment that rose in my throat.
"I was... I was just remembering," she stuttered. She was crouching, trying to balance the stack of frames, when she clumsily plopped down to sit.
"Fuck," she muttered, blowing a stray hair from her eye, her arm still wrapped around the frames as she reached for the bottle. It was just out of her reach, so she scooted over to grab it and repositioned herself so her feet rested on the top steps. She took a swig and ran her arm across her forehead, frustrated with the floating hairs that kept falling in her face. She looked like she'd just traveled through a tunnel of blankets.
I held the remaining frames that she couldn't quite manage and settled next to her. That's when I realized what they were―pictures of my father.
My mother shuffled through the stack that teetered on her lap and sent one slipping and sliding down the stairs. "Fuck."
Big, wet tears streamed down her face as she held a photo up. It was of her and my father sitting on a sailboat.
"I know you were looking for these," she blubbered, swiping the back of her hand across her nose. "I had to dig them out of the back of the closet. But I can't..."
She couldn't continue. Her eyes were smeared with mascara, bloodshot and half-open. Behind her inebriation was a sadness that was consuming her, and my heart ached at the sight of it.
"You remind me of him."
"I'm sorry," I whispered, not knowing how to comfort her.
"I forgot how much I missed him," she slurred, slouching against the banister. Another frame slid from her lap and crashed down the stairs.
"Fuck!" she screamed. In one sudden motion, she picked up her pile and threw the
My mother set the plates down on the table I’d set for two, the one thing I could do.
"Thank you," I said, sitting down with a glass of water.
"Sure," she responded, sitting across from me.
When I looked up from my plate to praise her for the meal, I found her watching me. It was like she was examining every inch of my face, so intently that it made me want to sink under the table.
"I forgot how much you look like him." Her eyes were glassy and distant―she was looking at me but not at the same time. I bowed my head to escape her sorrowful gaze.
"So, Sara seems like she's an amazing friend," my mother said, her voice suddenly back to normal. I glanced up as she pierced the cut pork chop with her fork.
"Uh, yeah," I responded, shaking off the haunted look in her eye. "She's my best friend."
"I have one of those," my mother smiled. "Sharon." She let out a laugh just thinking about her. "We've done everything together. She usually gets me into trouble, but I have the best stories because of her."
I nodded, trying to remember this woman that seemed to be such a huge part of her life―but came up blank. I realized there wasn't much about my mother that I knew, even from the twelve years she was technically in my life.
It wasn't the howling of the wind or the boards groaning that drew me from my bed that night. Yes, they were the reasons I was still awake, but I was brought to my feet by the clatter of metal crashing outside my door. I found my mother kneeling on the floor with her back to me, trying to stack the framed photographs that were scattered across the hallway.
As I got closer, I could hear her mumbling to herself, clumsily setting one frame on top of the other. When I bent down to help her pick them up, I realized that she was crying.
"Are you okay?" I asked tentatively.
"Huh?" her head shot up. “Oh, Emily, I'm sorry." She sniffled and wiped her red cheeks with her sleeve. "I woke you up."
She blinked heavily, and I sank to the floor with the realization... she was drunk. I spotted the bottle of vodka resting next to the top step and swallowed hard against the disappointment that rose in my throat.
"I was... I was just remembering," she stuttered. She was crouching, trying to balance the stack of frames, when she clumsily plopped down to sit.
"Fuck," she muttered, blowing a stray hair from her eye, her arm still wrapped around the frames as she reached for the bottle. It was just out of her reach, so she scooted over to grab it and repositioned herself so her feet rested on the top steps. She took a swig and ran her arm across her forehead, frustrated with the floating hairs that kept falling in her face. She looked like she'd just traveled through a tunnel of blankets.
I held the remaining frames that she couldn't quite manage and settled next to her. That's when I realized what they were―pictures of my father.
My mother shuffled through the stack that teetered on her lap and sent one slipping and sliding down the stairs. "Fuck."
Big, wet tears streamed down her face as she held a photo up. It was of her and my father sitting on a sailboat.
"I know you were looking for these," she blubbered, swiping the back of her hand across her nose. "I had to dig them out of the back of the closet. But I can't..."
She couldn't continue. Her eyes were smeared with mascara, bloodshot and half-open. Behind her inebriation was a sadness that was consuming her, and my heart ached at the sight of it.
"You remind me of him."
"I'm sorry," I whispered, not knowing how to comfort her.
"I forgot how much I missed him," she slurred, slouching against the banister. Another frame slid from her lap and crashed down the stairs.
"Fuck!" she screamed. In one sudden motion, she picked up her pile and threw the
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