Page 100 of Sweeter Than Fiction

“They are mad at me for how I acted toward you at Thanksgiving. They suggested maybe I come here and talk to you.” She looks away and adds, “They pretty much demanded that I come here and talk to you before they would talk to me.”

My patience grows thinner by the second. “Okay, so, let me get this straight. You are only here because your other two favorite children won’t talk to you unless you apologize?”

“Well—”

“Yeah, I think we are done.” I stand up off the couch.

“Abigail…”

“No, I don’t want to hear it. The only time you’ve ever even stepped foot into my apartment was when my brothers told you that you were being a monster at Thanksgiving…which you were.”

She stops me. “Abigail, I can admit that I haven’t been here, and maybe that’s on me, but you haven’t exactly invited me either.”

“What?”

She stands up to join me. “When you got out of college, you wouldn’t even give me your address. Then, you move here, and you make sure to tell me that you’re only giving me the address for emergencies. You didn’t make it seem like I was welcome.”

We both stand still for a moment, just staring at each other before I ask, “Can you blame me? I am clearly low man on the totem pole when it comes to the hierarchy of your children.”

“That’s not true. I don’t have favorites.”

That makes me let an obnoxiously loud cackle. “Ha! You have always been closer to Adam and Austin than me. Always. And you never even tried to hide it.”

She looks exasperated by everything I’m saying. “Can we please just sit down and talk?”

When I don’t move, she adds an insistent, “Please.”

“Fine. For a minute. But Don should be here soon, so let’s keep this quick.”

We sit back on the couch, and she takes another long sip before continuing. “You and I both know that we don’t have a ton in common. When I got a daughter, I thought she would be a little mini-me since your brothers are carbon copies of your dad. But I got a daughter who was quite literally the exact opposite of myself. Half the time, I didn’t know how to handle you. Quite frankly, your brothers were pieces of cake, and then you were so…different. I had no idea how to teach you—or interact with you for that matter. And you were so interested in things that I knew nothing about.”

I stop her. “Here’s the thing. You tried to mold me into who you wanted me to be with the frilly dresses and beauty pageants. You wanted me to make an effort to like what you liked. And I did. But when did you ever do the same for me? My interests were never good enough for you to even pretend to care about.”

She pauses for a moment. “You’re right.”

“Come again?” I ask, not prepared for her to agree with me on something.

“I should have done more to try to form some type of bond with you. Between being caught up in your brothers’ busy lives, and trying to navigate all your issues, I didn’t take the time to try to bond with you like I should have.”

Still flabbergasted, I don’t say a word.

She continues, “I know I give you shit, and I know I pick at your life. I’m sorry. I think it’s hard for me to grasp sometimes that you are so very different from us. You have always been individual and quirky. Your brothers were easy. They played sports and did all the typical high school things. You didn’t seem interested in any of it. To be honest, I just had no idea how to be your mom. And it always killed me because I didn’t have a good relationship with my mother. We were never close, and I told myself that it wouldn’t be like that when I had a daughter.”

I have no idea what to say. My mother has never opened up to me about anything. She’s always been stoic to a fault. I thought maybe it was just me, but maybe that’s just how she is.

She keeps talking. “I still don’t quite understand how that big brain of yours works, and I don’t know that I ever will. But I’d like to try.”

“So, where do we go from here?” I ask.

She gives a small laugh. “I have no idea. But I think we can figure it out. Maybe we can try to find something that we have in common.”

We both stay still for a moment, trying to think of what that something might be.

Finally, I say, “We don’t have to pick out something now.”

She lets out a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God.” She takes another sip of wine before asking, “So, Don is coming over?”

I nod. “Yeah, he’s taking me out. Says he has something to show me.”

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