“SITTING THERE, YOU LOOK LIKE you did when we were kids,” Connie comments at my back, running her hand over my ponytail and giving it a gentle pull. “Only at our age, the view outside your bedroom is different.”
“It really is,” I return, remiss.
All morning I’ve been sitting in my old house, fumbling through my old things.
Initially, I thought by bringing the girls to explore the person I used to be, maybe we’d all find desperately needed common ground. I wanted time at peace with them before Thomas and I all but ripped their worlds apart.
Averie has taken to the task as I thought she would. She’s been ecstatic in going through my yearbooks and mementos. She found odd humor while studying my old pictures. She’s laughed at my hair, my clothes, and critiqued my makeup as a mother would. She’s even taken a few jabs at Connie when she’s found her pictures, too.
She also came upon one of my old journals. My favorite. The beat-up outside leather is now tattered and threadbare. The inside pages worn from my reading them so many times. And the drawings of hearts, stars, flowers, and whatever else I thought to doodle have faded.
When Averie came across the name “Mason” written in big, bold script, she giggled. Thankfully, my youngest daughter has no idea who the Mason in my journals is. And luckily, I caught her before she could read further.
“God, I miss being eleven,” I remark. “Life was so much easier when all you had to worry about was who you were going to sit next to on the bus.”
Connie laughs. “Oh, but if I knew then what I know now,” she smarts. “I would’ve made a slutty play for all of Grace’s crushes.”
I smile out the window, knowing without a doubt Connie would do exactly that.
“I’d start rumors about the bitch, too,” she adds.
“I’d help,” I reply honestly.
Casting another glance through the windowpane, I note how much the neighborhood landscapes have changed. Yet, the houses are all the same.
Mrs. Hendry, our once elderly neighbor who lived across the street, died years ago. In place, a large family of five is outside wrestling with their dog on the lawn.
Dad’s car, no longer the family-sized black sedan I remember, is now a sleek and sporty red convertible.
“She’s still so angry,” I tell Connie in regards to Amelia. “Not just at Averie or me, but at everything.”
Amelia hasn’t had the same reaction Averie’s had in coming here. Rather than make an attempt to mend our strained relationship, she’s been continuing to mood downstairs. The television is turned up so loud, no one can hear their own thoughts.
Neither of my girls have any inclination that their parents are planning to divorce. The truth, when Thomas and I decide to tell them, will hurt them in a way we’ve always, always worked so hard to avoid. But by waiting, the knowledge of finding out their parents lived unhappily together for them would hurt even more.
Connie takes a seat on the pillowed bench at my side and turns to face the view. “The girls will get over this.”
“Maybe.”
“They’ll adjust. Divorce happens. You and Thomas still care about each other.”
“We do.”
“But, honey, it’s not only the girls I worry about,” she explains.
“I know.”
“I worry for you.”
Dutifully, I return. “Thank you for that, but I’ll be fine.”
“I worry for Cole, too,” she admits. “This will shake him too. He’ll feel guilt.”
He shouldn’t. Of course, he had a hand in interrupting my marriage, but I held the control. Coming here, remembering my life before Thomas was ever in it didn’t matter. Because in all my boxed up memories, I found Mason was always there. I had control in that, too.
“We should go get ice cream,” she suggests. “I think your dad is ready to take his house back.”
“Where is he?”
When I told Dad I was packing the girls and coming for a visit, I heard the hesitation in his answer.
Though he agreed, I also knew there was more he wanted to say. We haven’t spoken about what he thinks he saw in the kitchen the night Mason brought Amelia home. Truth is, my dad and I haven’t spoken much at all.
My life is falling apart around me. Yet, other than wanting a man I shouldn’t, while my husband has an affair with whomever he may please, I’m the one being punished.
Connie smiles. “Last I saw of him, he was in the garage searching for earplugs. Between Averie’s constant giggling and Amelia’s moods, he’s also probably looking for a stiff drink.”
“My moods?” Amelia tersely queries, causing our heads to turn.
She’s standing in the doorway, hands to hips, wearing the dirty red and black flannel pajama pants she refused to change out of before being forced to come here. Her hair is a mess of tangled curls and her face is pale. My daughter has lost weight, and it’s weight she couldn’t afford to lose.
“This isn’t a mood,” she clips again, this time her eyes narrow at me.
“Honey, Connie didn’t mean—”
“Fuck that,” she hisses, dropping her hands from her hips.
“Amelia Terese!” I call when she turns to leave.
Twisting back, she holds the doorjamb tightly. Her venomous expression isn’t one I’ve ever seen, and one I already hate.
“Explain yourself, honey,” Connie bids quietly.
“Okay, I will,” Amelia spits back, stepping into the room on bare feet. She takes in the floor littered with my memories, moves her hands about them and asks, “You two are sitting up here, doing what?”
“Amelia, I don’t—”
“You brought me and Averie here to do what?” she questions further, so angry.
Connie stands, walking toward Amelia. “Let’s all go downstairs and talk.”
Connie doesn’t get far before she stops midstep to gasp.
As shrill as I’ve ever heard Amelia’s voice, she screams, “Dad is fucking Grace Aldean, and it’s like you don’t even care!”
Oh, my God.
The room silences, and I blink. It’s the only action I can muster. A blink. In that one blink of an eye, I’ve learned my daughter’s life has already been rocked. She’s come to realize her family isn’t what it should be.
Taking a breath, she goes on, this time only slightly calmer. “He’s been sleeping with her forever, and you say nothing!”
“Oh, honey,” I call, my eyes now shining with my regret.
God, I’m so fucking tired of regret.
“No, Mom!” Amelia protests. “Don’t ‘honey’ your way out of this. You’ve been wanting to know what’s on my mind, well there it is.”
“Shit,” Connie utters, looking down and covering her face with her hands. “Yes. There it is.”
“My mother is weak,” Amelia declares. “Instead of fighting for us, our family, you’re sitting in your old room, wishing you were what? Eleven again?”
“That’s not what I was doing.”
Sharply, to serve her point, she glares. “It’s exactly what you were doing.”
“Amelia, please come here.”
If I can touch her, hold her like I did when she was young, I may be able to help. This could be a futile effort, but I have no other choice. At least none that my fifteen-year-old daughter would consider.
With nothing for it, I stand and extend my arms.
Amelia looks down, clearly still distraught but with some of her anger ebbing.
“I don’t understand,” she shakes her head to tell me. “Does Dad love her more than he loves us?”
Rushing to her, I grab her arms and kneel. Her tears start to fall as she slams her eyes closed.
“Look at me, Amelia,” I order. When she doesn’t respond, I give her a small shake and repeat, “Honey, please look at me.”
“I found out at school,” she explains, as her eyes open slowly—painfully. “The other kids, my old friends, make fun of you.”
Christ.
“Those rotten little bitches. I oughta…” I twist my gaze to Connie, which thankfully shuts her up.
“They say Dad never loved you,” Amelia goes further, “maybe not Averie and me.”
Gathering Amelia in my arms, I hold on tight. She doesn’t return the gesture, but she doesn’t push me away. Too much time has gone by since I’ve held my oldest like this. Reasoning with this, I fight the urge to cry.
“There are a lot of things to explain,” I start, my voice breaking. “But none of this has to do with you or Averie. None of it.” Pulling her from my hold, I grasp her shoulders and search her face. “Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
“Sure,” she returns. “I’m too young to understand.”
“No,” I correct. “Because you’re young. This isn’t for you to worry about.”
“No?” she rallies back. “Weird, ‘cause this is my life too, Mom. And Dad is shitting all over it.”
“Mouth,” I punish. “You’re angry with him, I get it.”
“I’m not angry with him,” she hisses. “I hate him.”
The last thing I’ve ever wanted was for either of our girls to have anything but love for their parents. I’ve resented my mother my entire life for leaving as she did. I hated her absence and loathed the memory of her I never had. All I’ve done as a parent is to ensure my children never felt as betrayed as I once did.
Lashing out, thrashing herself between us, Amelia releases herself from my arms.
She makes her way toward the door. When I call her name, she turns, pins me with disdain, and states, “You’re not blameless, Mom. Not at all.”
“Oh no,” Connie utters.
“Amelia, what did you say?”
“I saw you that night he brought me home. I saw how you glanced at him. Dad maybe fucking Grace, he may love her even,” she tells me. “But there’s more. You and Cole…”
“Shit,” Connie murmurs, turning around to give Amelia as much space as she can.
“He talked about you like he knew you.”
“Amelia, come talk to me.”
She glances at Connie’s back then brings her angry gaze to mine and she shakes her head. “Never mind. Nothing I know matters anyway, because I’m too young to understand.”
Letting her go, I watch Amelia clear the door. Only then do I look to the ceiling and pray to God my father doesn’t hear me cry.