When You Were Mine

“I don’t know if I can bear to, with my dad. It was all pretty awful before I left. But my mom…” My voice trails off as something tugs at my heart, like the string of a kite. I miss my mom. It’s something I haven’t let myself think, never mind feel, for a long time.

“You should contact her, Beth,” Ally says quietly. “For your sake, as well as hers. I can’t believe a mother wouldn’t want to hear from her child.”

“You’d be surprised,” I say, but I know that’s a bit unfair. My mom hasn’t been displeased whenever I called, more just unenthused, a bit uncertain, almost as if I’m a grenade that might go off over the phone. “Anyway.” I give Ally a direct look. “You might be worried about your kids, Ally, and how complicated the relationships feel, but speaking from the other side, I know that all you really need to do is be there for them.” I hear the throb of emotion in my voice, but I don’t care. “Just be there. Show up—again and again, even when they mess up big time. And they will.”

“Yes.” Ally brushes at her eyes as she tries for a smile. “Yes.” She lets out a shaky laugh. “Thank you, Beth.”

I don’t know how to respond, because it seems so odd that I of all people am giving parenting advice to the woman who is taking care of my son, but so much about this situation hasn’t been what I expected. How can I be surprised by yet another bend in the road?

“I think we’ve found a tree!” Josh calls, and Ally gives me a quick, warm smile before starting towards her family.

The rest of the day passes easily enough, but I don’t spend much time with Dylan. In the bosom of the Fieldings, there isn’t really room for me, and I understand that even as I chafe against it. If it were just Dylan and me, it would be different, although maybe not in a good way. Not anymore.

I try to enter into the spirit of the occasion, more for Ally’s sake than my own. She seems to take the weight of everyone’s else emotions on herself, working hard without trying to seem to, to make sure everyone is happy.

We all take turns with the saw, lying flat on our backs on the snow, under the fragrant spruce branches, hacking away at the trunk. It’s a lot hard

er than I expected, and I barely make a dent in the wood before I give up.

“Come on, Beth,” Nick jollies me along. “You’ve got to put your whole shoulder into it. Really give it your all.”

And so, with all the Fieldings watching me, I do my best to saw at the trunk, and manage a bit more. They all cheer, which is kind, and part of me warms to it all while another part shrinks back. I don’t belong here, not really, yet more and more it seems as if Dylan does.

Josh helps him saw the trunk; no one even asks if I’d like to be the one to do it. On the way back, with Nick dragging the tree, Dylan runs ahead with Emma and Josh. No matter what problems Ally’s children might be facing, they look like happy-go-lucky kids right now, as does Dylan, all of them frolicking through the snow. The sight gives me a rush of joy, a flash of pain, the emotions tangled together.

Back at the barn, one of the staff members binds the tree in wire while we have hot chocolate in the little café.

“We have a tradition,” Ally tells me a bit shyly, “everyone picks out an ornament in their shop. I’d like you to, as well. And Dylan too, of course.”

“That’s very kind. Thank you.” I turn to Dylan, determined that we at least spend this part of the day together. “Shall we have a look at them together, Dyl?”

Am I imagining the trapped look on his face as he holds his mug of hot chocolate with both hands? I smile, waiting for a response, willing for him to say a word. Yes. Mama. Anything. After what feels like an endless few seconds, he nods, and then buries his face in his mug, so when he lifts his head, there is whipped cream on his nose.

We finish our hot chocolates a few minutes later, and I take Dylan’s hand as we wander through the aisles of different Christmas ornaments—some tasteful, some tacky, some ornate, others simple.

“What do you think, Dyl?” I ask my son. “Is there one you like in particular?” I check the price of a smiling Santa carved out of wood—sixteen bucks. These are not cheap.

Dylan shakes his head and we keep walking—past shiny baubles and carved sleds and skies, frosted snowflakes and glittering ballerinas. There is every ornament imaginable here.

I decide on a simple silver bell, and when we come to an aisle of ornaments aimed at children, Dylan rushes towards a basket full of ones made of Lego. The big, sloppy grin on his face makes me both smile and ache. He picks out a Christmas tree decorated with little dots of red and yellow, and turns to me with a question in his eyes.

“That looks like a good one,” I tell him.

Ally appears at the end of the aisle, her step faltering as she sees us, clearly not wanting to interrupt the moment, but then Dylan runs to her, waving his little Christmas tree.

“That’s a great choice, Dylan,” she says, ruffling his hair with an easy affection that feels beyond me now.

My hands clench into fists and I force myself to uncurl them and relax. This doesn’t have to be a competition, even if it feels like one I’m always losing.

Dylan is still my son.

Back at my apartment a couple of hours later, I drift around, unable to settle to anything. The Fieldings invited me for to stay for dinner, a Chinese takeout, but Dylan had already raced inside with Emma and Josh, and I’d felt left out and out of sorts, so I declined, telling Ally I’d see Dylan on Tuesday as usual.

It’s five o’clock on a Saturday evening and I have nowhere to go, no one to talk to. Mike is out with some high-school buddies, not that we spend every weekend together anyway. I thought about going up to see Angela, as I have a couple of times before to write letters, but her combination of sweetness and confusion feels too tiring to deal with right now. I want to be with someone who knows me.

Which is why I end up calling my mom. It’s not that unusual an occurrence, although it always feels as if it is. I talk to her maybe once every three or four months, short, stilted conversations that never really get anywhere. I don’t know why tonight will be any different, yet as my mother answers my call, I realize I want it to be. I need things to change—even this.

“Beth…” As usual, she sounds both happy and alarmed to hear from me. I imagine her checking her watch, a slight frown on her face.