Page 12 of Pretend for Me

But my grievances with my dad pale in comparison to the looming loss we’ll both face in the upcoming months. The loss of the woman who binds our family with her love. The loss of someone so irreplaceable, we’ll never recover. It’s a thought that haunts me daily, knowing in just four to six months, based on her recent prognosis, I’ll lose my safe haven, my mom.

“Hey, Mom.” I clear the gravel from my voice. Leaningdown, I press a kiss to her cheek and sit next to her. “Nothing I can’t handle.” What I want to say is it’s ‘nothing out of the ordinary,’ but I know how much it stresses her out when there’s tension between Dad and me, and that’s the last thing I want for her. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m perfectly fine,” she lies.

“At least take off the hat in front of your mother,” Dad requests from his seat across the table, but it sounds more like an order.

I hesitate but do so, only to see their shocked faces a second later.

“Jesus Christ, did you lose a bet?” my dad asks, astounded.

“Dev, what happened to your hair?” Mom adds, looking horrified. “Did the barber fall asleep while cutting it?!”

Ha! Funnily enough . . .

I weigh out telling them the story but decide against it. Somehow, telling my parents about the strange encounter I had with a hairdresser—who likely moonlights as an auctioneer—and her hairless felines sounds about as ridiculous in my head as it would coming from my lips.

I put my hat back on. “It’s a long story.”

Thankfully, my parents don’t push me for answers, and a few seconds later, we’re settled into a comfortable silence.

Mom shifts in her chair. “Your father helped me out into the garden this morning since I wanted to smell the roses we all planted together years ago.” She presses her palm over mine. “Remember that, Dev? We put Deena in her bouncer out here, and the three of us took turns entertaining her while we gardened.”

My eyes prick, remembering the times when we were all happy, healthy. “I remember.”

She casts her gaze around the garden, taking in the arched trellis with the vines running around it and the lush landscape.She truly made this little space hers—inviting, serene, and beautiful.

“I wanted the fresh air on my face and to hear the birds chirping. I was tired of being confined to my bed.”

I stay silent, even as her words lodge inside my chest like jagged stones.

She draws in a ragged breath, her eyes shimmering. “I’ve had a fulfilling life, I really have. I’ve been lucky enough to have two wonderful children, to travel, and to enjoy all the luxuries of life.” Her voice waivers as she swallows. “I just wish I could have seen . . .”

When she doesn’t complete her thought, I turn toward her, gently squeezing her hand. “What, Mom?”

She shakes her head, a tear slipping from her eyes, betraying the mask of bravery she usually dons. “Nothing. I was being silly.”

I gently grasp her face, wiping her tears. Her skin feels thin under my thumbs. “What were you going to say? What is it that you wished you could have seen? You know I’ll move heaven and earth so you can see it.”

Her hollowed gaze finds mine. “It’s not something you can show me, sweetheart. I mean, you would, I’m sure, if I had more time, but . . .”

“But, what? What is it?” I urge, resolute in making my dying mother’s wish come true, even if I have to bring the damn Taj Mahal here piece by piece and reassemble it for her myself.

“I just want to see you happy.”

My throat tightens. “I am happy.”

She snorts out a laugh even as her powder blue eyes brim with tears. “I may have an inoperable malignant brain tumor, son, but I haven’t lost brain function yet. I can see when my children are truly happy, and I know you’re not. You’re running yourself thin from work, no thanks to your dad.” Shepauses to glare at my dad, making him shift uncomfortably in his chair. “And it’s been a year and a half since Sister Camila?—”

“Mom,” I interrupt before we go down a path we’ve been down several times. “You need to stop calling her that.”

“I need to stop calling herSister Camila?” she argues with the little strength in her voice. “Why? She’s the one who suddenly decided, after years of dangling you along, that she wanted to marry Jesus! You know I will have a discussion with Him when I get up there.”

I muster up a reluctant chuckle at her attempted humor, even though it kills me inside that she’s joking about her impending death.

She’s still pissed on my behalf with Camila’s rather spontaneous decision to“renounce this material life and serve our Lord”. But I’m completely over it. In all honesty, I don’t think I even mourned us for a week.

Yes, Camila dropped her bombshell on what would have been our fifth anniversary—coincidentally, the same day I planned to propose. But strangely, I found a sense of relief amidst the shock.

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