lot of time and work into it. And believe me, I kept the cost down. It would have been much more expensive if I hadn’t pinched every penny until it squeaked!”
“We should move back to our old neighborhood,” I blurt out. “We never sold our old house, we could move back into it. We lived there just fine and we could do it again and everything will go back to the way it was.”
She forces a titter and rolls her eyes.
“Move back there? Honey, you don’t remember, but it’s not a great neighborhood. There were break-ins. The school zone is awful. There was a drug bust three houses down a couple of years ago. There’s no way we’d live there. Not to mention that your memory is playing tricks on you. If you saw our tiny little 3/2 now, you’d never be able to live there. Old terrazzo floors, a tiny, sandy yard full of fire ants and weeds.”
“This isn’t about me, Mom,” I snap back. “You’re the one who’s too good to live there now.”
She’s out of her seat, rising to her full height.
“How dare you talk to me like that, young lady.” The fond, proud look is gone. “You are not too old to be grounded! When did you become such a spoiled, ungrateful child?”
I stand up too, and we’re the same height. Our fists are clenched by our sides and both of us have our chins forward in a pugnacious tilt.
“I am going to say it, because you need to hear it. How did we get here? You and Dad got us here!” I gesture at the bills but in my anger, I misjudge and knock the pile over. They scatter and flutter like birds set free. We both stare at the mess. Bills and statements are everywhere, on the floor, on the counter, on the chairs.
“Oh, crap,” I say sadly.
“It wasn’t our fault, honey,” my mom says, her anger deflated in the face of this mess, physical and metaphorical. “We had the worst luck. The investments…then the economy turned at the worst moment, no one could have known that would happen.…”
I don’t want to hear the excuses. With a sigh, I kneel down to pick up the papers.
“No,” she says, stopping me. “I’ll do it.”
“But it’s my fault. Let me help.”
“No,” she says firmly. “I’ll clean up. Go do your homework. You don’t want to fall behind.”
She’s not furious anymore and neither am I. But nothing has been cleared up and I still haven’t told her I might not give over the money. It’s hard to do it in the face of her quiet dignity and defeat.
“We can’t move back to the old house,” she says tiredly, kneeling by the bills on the floor. “We haven’t paid the taxes on it in three years. There’s almost ten thousand dollars due. The county’s putting it up for auction soon.” She speaks so quietly, it’s almost a whisper.
My deflating anger leaves me empty and all stretched out. I bend down again to help pick up the mess but she shoos me away. “Go do your homework.”
“Okay, Mom.” I kiss her cheek. “I love you, you know.”
She nods, still kneeling, and I can’t see her face.
“I know you do,” she says, her voice nearly muffled. “I know.”
I leave her on her knees in the kitchen, picking up the mess we all made.
Climbing the wide staircase, grasping the railing, its tendrils of wrought iron like frozen vines from some enchanted land, I have never felt more alone.
Give all my trust away?
I ask, my heart pounding at the thought of an angel visit right here in my house. Yet I have to ask.
How will that fix this?
But angels don’t answer unsolicited questions. Maybe he’s busy with other chores. All is quiet as I slowly trek upstairs. There are only us lost human souls in the house and we have to make our way as best we can.
I used to be dismissive of people who prayed to God for answers. My literal, scientific mind used to believe that unless some heavenly voice answered you with the correct answer, you were wasting your time. You might as well be asking your invisible friend what she thinks about the
“We should move back to our old neighborhood,” I blurt out. “We never sold our old house, we could move back into it. We lived there just fine and we could do it again and everything will go back to the way it was.”
She forces a titter and rolls her eyes.
“Move back there? Honey, you don’t remember, but it’s not a great neighborhood. There were break-ins. The school zone is awful. There was a drug bust three houses down a couple of years ago. There’s no way we’d live there. Not to mention that your memory is playing tricks on you. If you saw our tiny little 3/2 now, you’d never be able to live there. Old terrazzo floors, a tiny, sandy yard full of fire ants and weeds.”
“This isn’t about me, Mom,” I snap back. “You’re the one who’s too good to live there now.”
She’s out of her seat, rising to her full height.
“How dare you talk to me like that, young lady.” The fond, proud look is gone. “You are not too old to be grounded! When did you become such a spoiled, ungrateful child?”
I stand up too, and we’re the same height. Our fists are clenched by our sides and both of us have our chins forward in a pugnacious tilt.
“I am going to say it, because you need to hear it. How did we get here? You and Dad got us here!” I gesture at the bills but in my anger, I misjudge and knock the pile over. They scatter and flutter like birds set free. We both stare at the mess. Bills and statements are everywhere, on the floor, on the counter, on the chairs.
“Oh, crap,” I say sadly.
“It wasn’t our fault, honey,” my mom says, her anger deflated in the face of this mess, physical and metaphorical. “We had the worst luck. The investments…then the economy turned at the worst moment, no one could have known that would happen.…”
I don’t want to hear the excuses. With a sigh, I kneel down to pick up the papers.
“No,” she says, stopping me. “I’ll do it.”
“But it’s my fault. Let me help.”
“No,” she says firmly. “I’ll clean up. Go do your homework. You don’t want to fall behind.”
She’s not furious anymore and neither am I. But nothing has been cleared up and I still haven’t told her I might not give over the money. It’s hard to do it in the face of her quiet dignity and defeat.
“We can’t move back to the old house,” she says tiredly, kneeling by the bills on the floor. “We haven’t paid the taxes on it in three years. There’s almost ten thousand dollars due. The county’s putting it up for auction soon.” She speaks so quietly, it’s almost a whisper.
My deflating anger leaves me empty and all stretched out. I bend down again to help pick up the mess but she shoos me away. “Go do your homework.”
“Okay, Mom.” I kiss her cheek. “I love you, you know.”
She nods, still kneeling, and I can’t see her face.
“I know you do,” she says, her voice nearly muffled. “I know.”
I leave her on her knees in the kitchen, picking up the mess we all made.
Climbing the wide staircase, grasping the railing, its tendrils of wrought iron like frozen vines from some enchanted land, I have never felt more alone.
Give all my trust away?
I ask, my heart pounding at the thought of an angel visit right here in my house. Yet I have to ask.
How will that fix this?
But angels don’t answer unsolicited questions. Maybe he’s busy with other chores. All is quiet as I slowly trek upstairs. There are only us lost human souls in the house and we have to make our way as best we can.
I used to be dismissive of people who prayed to God for answers. My literal, scientific mind used to believe that unless some heavenly voice answered you with the correct answer, you were wasting your time. You might as well be asking your invisible friend what she thinks about the
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