Page 99 of Sweeter Than Fiction

“No, Abigail. Your father is fine.”

“Why are you here?”

“Why don’t you go put on some clothes, and then, we can talk.”

“Okay,” I say, drawing out the word as I step aside to let her in.

I quickly hurry to the bedroom to throw on something. I opt for leggings and a decent shirt so that I don’t get any comments about my raggedy old sweatpants.

Calling out to her, I ask, “Do you want some coffee or something?”

She’s silent for a moment before answering, “Do you have wine?”

As I join her in the living room, I say, “I always have wine.”

While I open a new bottle, I watch her walk around and take in everything she sees. This is the first time that my mom has stepped foot in this place. After college, I moved into a pretty shady studio apartment that I wasn’t exactly proud of, so I never even gave her the address. When I sold my first software program, I managed to get this place. I gave her the address in case of emergencies, but she’s never just stopped by.

The look on her face gives nothing away. I can’t detect even a hint of what she’s thinking.

Does she like it?

Doubtful.

Does she hate it?

Probably.

After two glasses are poured, I walk over and hand her one.

“Should we sit?” I ask, trying to be polite but secretly hoping that this will be over soon.

We each take a seat at opposite ends of the couch.

“This is a nice place,” she says. “It seems like you’ve done well for yourself.”

“Not bad,” I reply.

“I like all your little figurines over there.” She points to the bookshelf.

I can’t take it anymore.

“Mom, what are you doing here? You’ve never been here before, and you say that nothing is wrong. But you have to want something. Let’s just cut the small talk. And for the record, I’m sure you hate those figurines.”

She raises her eyebrows. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you be so blunt. I’m used to you being so mousy and quiet.”

“I still can be. But I can find my voice when I need to.”

“You were such a quiet kid,” she says in a voice so low that I wonder if she’s still actually talking to me or just thinking out loud.

“A lot of things have changed since I was a kid,” I reply with a sigh. “So, what are you doing here?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“About?”

“Your brothers are mad at me.”

I take a sip of my wine. “Okay? What does that have to do with me?”

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