He wants to see me.
“He wants to talk.”
He wants to talk.
Politely, but most importantly, calmly, I slid my hand away from my mom’s. I returned to my computer without a beat.
“Did you hear me?”
Of course, I’d heard her. I was sitting next to her, but she knew that. That wasn’t really her question. Not really, and I think we both knew that.
Shifting away, my mom blew into her hands. She opened them. “What do I have to do to get you to seek closure with your father?”
That was the thing. My closure, my pain had nothing to do with her. It was my own and she couldn’t rush it.
Let alone dictate it.
I hit keys in rapid strokes, worried about what I’d say next. Words bubbled tight at the cork, pinched tight between my lips.
“It’s really helping me, Ramses,” Mom nearly whispered, and she didn’t whisper. She had no problems making a point, telling me off if she thought I was being stubborn. “It’s making it so it doesn’t hurt as much. It’s allowing me to move on…”
“Move on?” I faced her, surprised by what she said. “And what makes you think any of us have a right to move on? Like we were the victims in what he did.”
Because we weren’t, not by a long shot. The true victims weren’t here and one of them couldn’t move on. Dad and Uncle Leo had made sure of that.
Mom pressed her hands together, touching them to her lips. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“Well, you’re going to have to break it down for me.”
“Don’t be mean, Ramses.”
“Mean?” I sat back. “Mean. You know what’s mean, Mom? Mean is stealing a daughter, a sister away from a family. Mean is how I see that sister every time I’m around my best friend and knowing my family is the reason she’ll never see her again.”
The words sobered between us, and at this point, Mom refused to look at me. She held her arms. “I know how December’s family has suffered.” She faced me. “And they are not the only ones. You can’t even talk about what happened. That is the problem, Ramses.”
“Okay. You wanna talk?” I directed a look her way. “Let’s talk about that closure, Ma. Let’s talk about poison. Let’s talk about how your ex-husband—my father—is such a visceral piece of fucking shit that there are places in your own house you can’t even stomach to walk into because they remind you of him.”
She’d gotten the house in the divorce, and she hadn’t stayed in their bedroom for years, his shit still in the closet like he had a right.
She couldn’t even bring herself to throw it out.
It pained her, still obviously. She closed her eyes. “Ramses…”
“You say he’s still such a part of my life? That I can’t talk about it. Talk about him?” I shook my head. “When will you move on, Mom? When will you start dating, Mom? Because you haven’t. Not in all these years.”
Her lashes opened, her head raised. “I’m not ready yet, son.”
“And maybe I’m not ready.” I lifted a hand. “For that closure you think I’m ready for.”
I was aware of how I was being, an asshole. Especially for talking to my mom in such a way. I didn’t do that.
Why did she always have to push?
The pair of us sat in silence as she cuffed her legs and I worried. I worried about what she’d say. That she’d push again, and I’d say something I really couldn’t take back. I only saw red in that moment, blinded by a haze of internal bullshit. It was because I hadn’t talked to anyone.
Of this, I knew.
Of this, I was completely aware. But I was so stubborn, I couldn’t get out of my own way. Mom was never like that.