we don’t really agree on much either.
“Stephanie.” Mom says my name as a sort of guarded
greeting. She sets her black leather purse down on the island’s
white quartz countertop.
As usual, she’s immaculately dressed. Not fancy. Just
her regular black pants, cardigan, blouse ensemble she wears
when she goes out. Today her blouse is red and the cardigan is
black. Plain, but dignified. Her hair turned grey a long time
ago and she never bothered with dying it. She always liked to
wear it long and she has it pulled back in a tidy bun at the back
of her head. Not at her nape. Not on top. Somewhere in the
middle. Not a hair is out of place. She’s wearing the gold chain
that my dad gave her for Christmas before I was born. It’s her
favorite. She has tons of other jewellery, but she hardly ever
takes off that necklace. I know that she has tons of rings too,
but she only ever wears her plain gold wedding band.
“Mom…” I’m not sure why she’s here. She has the
code for the front door because she’s my mom and I didn’t see
any harm in giving it to her. Normally she calls me to tell me
that she’s coming. This is only probably the second or third
time she’s ever just walked in. “Do you want eggs? Toast?”
The toaster pops then, comically.
Mom shakes her head. There’s something wrong with
her eyes. They’re too intense. Not narrowed, but dark. She has
dark brown eyes like me. She’s a few inches shorter than I am,
but she’s every bit as in shape. Mom always liked to be active.
She was always naturally trim, so exercise was something she
enjoyed, not something she made herself do. She still loves her
yoga classes and she and my dad often go for walks or even go
hiking or biking together.