50
Mom picks up on the first ring. “Jessica! Did he change his mind? Is he coming home?”
It hurts that, even when she sees my name, he is her first thought. But I try to be grateful that I’m still stored in her phone—still one of her contacts, even if we almost never reach out to one another.
“No, Mom. He hasn’t. I’m sorry.”
“Oh.” I can feel the wind rushing out of her, like a balloon that someone let go without first tying off. I picture my mother dissolving on the floor, wilted and wrinkled, and impotent as rubber. But she doesn’t dissolve—ever. Maybe, if she did, it would be easier to understand each other.
I’m the first to break the silence. “Hey, Mom?”
“Yes, honey.”
“Thank you for the flowers and the check.”
“Oh, Jessica, of course. I hope you bought yourself something nice.”
