Read Online The Space Between Promises by Rachel L. Jeffers - Free Book Online

such a moment. Years later, we would laugh at the time Mom thought Dad could glue my record, and even in the laughter, her expression was slightly pained, knowing it was she who had accidentally broken a piece of my happiness. What she could never truly know is that it was in those broken moments that I would feel the most love. Her love for me, her admiration for my father, his love for me, which would always tell the truth, hiding nothing. And somehow, in those moments, I felt remarkably whole.

I remind myself of this as I pull out the crystal carafe, which had once been paired with a matching water glass. It was called a "bedside carafe," and I had to have it! How romantic and pretty it was, its floral motif etched in the clear crystal. And how impractical it had been for me to actually leave it on my nightstand, submitting it to the fate of two chubby toddler hands. All that remained was the carafe, which I now use as an occasional vase, blending nicely with my farm house full of mismatched treasures, patched heirlooms, and mended trifles. I arrange a handful of painted twigs in the carafe, pleased with the look, and set it on the table. I have use for things which have been broken. I find beauty in their story, and I long to make them useful. I fall hopelessly in love with their pain, empathize with their loneliness, and will go to any length to restore their dignity. This is how I came to love Gregory.

Chapter Sixteen
    "dear mom and dad, your the best parents ever. I love you. Love, Sam. Sign a note on the back."

I had found the little note on the kitchen table, and smiled, my heart once again melting at the warmth that comes from his little soul. He was only seven years old, yet his ability to love surpassed his years. We had done nothing special that would warrant this unexpected sign of affection. It's not as if we had just bought him an expensive toy that he would jump up and down over,  throwing random hugs our way and squealing that we were the best parents ever because we had spoiled our child, catering to selfish whims. No, it was an ordinary day, an ordinary note, and one more letter to add to my linen bag. After I answered the back of the note with gushing praise of what a wonderful boy he was, I tucked it away for safe-keeping. I look at it now, two years later, inspired by the desire to put it in a frame, and I smile as I finger the raw edges where it had been torn from a small notebook.

Maggie had been a clingy child, loving to be held, clutched, tickled, scratched, whatever sensory input one could give. She would never leave my side, follow me to the laundry room, sit on my lap while I folded laundry, and squeeze between my legs in the kitchen. I would move awkwardly from stove to sink, aware of the bulky burden that was nuzzled under my skirt. This is how she shows her love for me, by proving her need for me. And it's okay. She was the only baby I cried over when it was time to wean her from the breast. Sometimes, even months later, I could feel my milk let down as I ached to nurse her. But, after a year, she was no longer satisfied, and I knew it was time. She is a needy child, and I love the way she feels tucked in my arms, so I require no praise from her. Our relationship is uncomplicated. I was ecstatic from the moment of conception, and each moment that she is stuck to me brings me a surge of pure joy. She sparkles.

Sam loves with his actions and his words. And his love requires nothing from me, yet fills me. When his thoughts and deeds are kinder than my own, I am overwhelmed with both pride and shame. I had been such a hard mother to him those first few years before Maggie came. I gave very little love, and I was quick to cut him down with harsh words. He was just a baby and I would yell and glare at him. It wasn't until he was about three, that I began to realize what a beautiful boy he was, and I promised myself I would spend a lifetime becoming worthy of him. Slowly, I became a mother,