If I'm Being Honest(85)

I walk to the front door, where I grab my running shoes. I don’t care that I’m in my winter formal dress. I don’t care that it’s one in the morning and I have nowhere to go. I perch on the end of the couch, pulling one shoe on, disregarding my lack of socks and mindlessly doing up the laces.

Mom walks back into the room.

I keep my eyes on the laces of my shoes. Reaching for my jacket on the couch, I refuse to spare her even half a glance until she steps right up to me, shoving a small black box under my nose.

I pause and look up at her. Her eyes are a maelstrom, a combination of uncertainty and despair and even a little indignation. She gestures for me to open the box.

I do.

Inside is a huge diamond ring.

“He didn’t want it back,” she says. “It never felt right to sell it.”

“What is this?” I ask, hearing the wobble in my voice. But I know.

“Your father proposed to me when I found out I was pregnant with you,” she says, and the whole world tilts.

Realization rips through me, upending the carefully crafted order by which I’ve structured my life. I’ve always known my mother pined for a man who would never have her, that she was too weak to ever put herself first. They’re truths that have shaped me in ways I don’t like to admit, making me cynical, detached, skeptical of sharing my heart. I was wrong. About her. About everything.

“I wanted him, too,” she continues. “I’ve always wanted him. You know that,” she adds with a sardonic twist of her lips. “He wanted us to be a family. Which . . . is why I said no.”

I feel a tear slip down my cheek. “What?” I ask softly, like this could all crumble if I speak too loudly. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve been chasing him my entire life. If I’d known he wanted us to be a family, I wouldn’t have had to.”

“You would have chased him regardless. He’s your father.” Her expression shifts. The combativeness fades, replaced by something softer, almost wistful. “When he asked me, my only thoughts were for the baby I’d just learned about. You were tiny, and yet you changed everything. He’s a cruel man, and I knew that—I’ve always known that. I wanted to protect you from the father I knew he’d be, from the pain and disappointment he’d bring you. That’s why I said no.”

Tears continue to drip from my eyelashes. I’m breathless, frozen, too shaken to reply.

“It was the strongest thing I ever did,” she says softly.

I stare at the proof in my hand. The proof that my mom tried, that she cared enough to give up what must have felt impossibly hard to abandon.

“I . . . haven’t been that strong every day since,” she continues. “I loved him even when I was saying no. Even when I knew what kind of man he is. I loved him for his charm, his intelligence, his confidence. When I no longer feared him being in your life, I gave myself over to those feelings. I know I’m far from perfect. I’m weak to love him. I’m sorry, Cameron. But”—tears run down her cheeks, and her voice trembles, buckling under the weight of her words—“I will always be grateful for that one moment of strength when he gave me that ring.”

My mind begins reorganizing my memories, quietly and immediately. Every time my dad’s ever called my mom pathetic, every time he’s berated her choices—it was bitterness coloring his words over a rejection he couldn’t fathom.

I imagine what my life would have been like if she’d said yes. Not the idealized version I’ve held on to—him coming to cross-country races or taking me out to dinner. The real version. The honest version. The pressure of his presence every day, the figure who’d dismiss me even if we lived under the same roof. It would be years of conversations like the phone call we had today. Years of constant contact with the cruelty I’ve instead caught only from a distance.

I drop the ring onto the end table, wanting nothing to do with it.

“You’re the most important thing in the world to me,” Mom says, and her words bring fresh tears to my eyes. But not the bad kind. Not the kind that drive an ache down your chest, that pull the breath from you and leave you hollow. They’re the kind that release something long contained. “I know your strength doesn’t come from me,” she goes on. “But I’m proud anyway. Every day I’m proud.”

Haltingly, she walks forward and wraps me in her arms. I’m too stunned to reciprocate. My arms hang limply by my sides. I never expected pride, never expected love from my mother. It’s why I’ve sought my father’s approval, why I hungered for the slightest sign he saw in me a daughter and not just a problem.

“I’m sorry for the mistakes I’ve made,” she says, withdrawing. “I’m sorry for the times I haven’t been the parent you deserve.”

The apology unlocks something in me. I hug her fiercely, harder than I expected. “It’s okay,” I hear myself whisper. The moment the words leave my mouth, I feel a knot I’d never noticed unravel in my chest. And I realize I’ve had this backward, in a way. I’ve tried to fix everything in my life through apologies.

But it’s not just about apologizing. It’s about forgiving.

It’s about forgiving my mother, and forgiving myself. Forgiving her for being unmotivated, for being uninvolved, for being weak. Forgiving myself for falling short of a standard my dad will never permit me to reach. Forgiveness is the release that washes the poison from my veins, the anger and envy I could never get rid of no matter how often I apologized. It’s impossibly, beautifully easy. The only thing I have to do is forgive my mother and I’ll have the parent I always needed.