Page 63 of Lighting the Lamp
“He didn’t call, huh?” Mama’s voice drifts in from the kitchen—casual, like she’s commenting on the weather.
“Mama, don’t.” I flinch, hoping she doesn’t catch it.
She leans against the doorframe, one hand wrapped around a single steaming mug, the other resting on her rhinestone-studded cane. She’s perfectly tied her silk headscarf, with strands of silver curls peeking out the edges, and she draped that gold-threaded cardigan over her shoulders like royalty in loungewear. The look on her face is maddeningly calm. One lifted brow, mouth curved in that barely there smile that says she’s trying to be gentle but has exactly zero intention of minding her own business.
“You want tea?” she asks, like this is any normal Tuesday night and not the quiet unraveling of everything I’ve been trying to hold together.
“I don’t want to talk.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Sure.” I sigh.
She moves slowly, the quiet tap of her cane echoing against the hardwood as she crosses the room and gracefully lowers herself onto the other end of the couch.
“Yours is on the kitchen island,” she says, setting her mug on a coaster and leaning back like she has all night to wait. “Don’t let it get cold.”
I drag myself off the couch with a groan and grab the second mug, feeling the weight of her gaze the entire way. I return and sink back down, curling into the corner with the tea clutched in both hands.
We sip in silence for a minute. The tea is sweet, warm, and familiar. None of which helps.
“So,” Mama says eventually, voice casual but eyes sharp. “You gonna tell me what flavor of self-sabotage we’re drinking tonight because I’d like to pair it with the appropriate snack.”
I glare at her over the rim of my mug. “I’m serious, Mama.”
“So am I.”
“I don’t want to talk about him.”
“And yet, here you are. Curled up like a heartbroken burrito with your phone flipped face down like it personally betrayed you.” She tilts her head to the side, eyeing me skeptically.
“Because I asked him to stay away, and now he is. So why does everyone think I’m being ridiculous for feeling like shit about it?”
“Baby, no one said you were being ridiculous.” Momma sets her tea back down and folds her arms.
“You don’t have to lie to me.” I press the heels of my palms into my eyes. “I know you, along with everyone else, think I’m being stubborn.”
“No. I think you’re scared,” she says, softer now. “And I think you’re trying so hard to protect yourself, you forgot he’s not the one swinging.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
I slam my mug down on the table, tea sloshing over the rim. “You think I want this? That I enjoy pushing him away? You think this is me being petty, like I’m punishing him for loving me too well?”
She meets my outburst with silence. I keep my eyes locked on the far corner of the room so I don’t have to see her expression. Those same looks of pity, concern, or worse, understanding that Ramona and Michele gave me last week..
“I know what I should do. I know. And God, I want to do it. I want to run to him. I want to climb into his lap and bury my face in his hoodie and stay there until I stop shaking. I want to ask him to hold me and mean it.”
“Then why don’t you?” she asks, voice so gentle it cuts deeper.
“Because he has enough to carry. Because I am too much. And I’m not saying that from insecurity. I’m saying it because it’s true. He’s trying to hold his career, his body, and his family together. If I let him love me right now, I’ll only break him.”
“Maybe he should be the one who gets to decide that.”
“No,” I say quickly, shaking my head like that’ll make it hurt less. “He’ll choose me every time, even if it hurts him. Even if it costs him everything, because that’s who he is, and I won’t let him do that.”
“So instead, you’ll punish both of you?” Mama leans in, her voice low and fierce.
