When You Were Mine

“The professional’s opinion.”

“Why,” Ally asks as she puts the papers down, “do we so often blame mothers for their children’s choices?”

“Dylan’s behavior wasn’t his choice.”

“I know, but…” Ally sighs and then turns to me. “Look, Beth, we don’t have a lot of time to hash this out. We needed to be leaving five minutes ago, so I’ll just say this. Every mother in the world makes mistakes. And most mothers—you most definitely included—do the best they can. And that is all a child ever needs.”

“Dylan’s anxiety—”

“I don’t care what some psychiatrist says. Were you responsible for some of Dylan’s anxiety—”

“All of it—”

“He didn’t even say all, but maybe you were. So what? That’s the past. This is the present. You’ve changed. So has he.”

“I haven’t changed enough.” I realize I am crying, tears trickling down my cheeks unchecked, a river of regret.

Ally grasps my hand. “You’ve changed enough to realize you needed to change. That’s the important thing. All of this is a process. Things aren’t going to fall into place the second you get Dylan back, and that’s okay. You love him, and he loves you. I know he does.”

“Still—”

“Let me remind you my daughter tried to kill herself. And my son got suspended from school for dealing drugs.” I stare at her in surprise, because she neglected to mention that. “Sorry,” Ally says, realizing her slip, “I should have told—”

“It doesn’t matter now,” I tell her, and I realize it doesn’t. “I’ve seen how Josh is with Dylan. He loves him.”

“Even so, I’m not exactly going to win Mother of the Year Award, am I?” She gives me a smile that tries to be wry but just looks sad. “But I’m trying. Trying to love and accept and not blame myself all the time. You should do the same. You can do the same. You need to, Beth.”

I shake my head, the tears still trickling down my cheeks, my voice clogged. “I can’t.” I’m so scared that I can’t. It’s like a fog shrouding my mind, clouding any hope or determination I might have once felt. I know I can’t. I’ll fail. Again.

“You can,” Ally insists. “And I’ll help you. You don’t have to do this alone anymore, Beth. We’re friends, aren’t we?” She looks at me determinedly as I simply stare. Friends? Really?

“Yes,” I say after a few seconds. “I suppose.”

“So let me help you, and you can help me. You already have, by telling me how important it is for a mother just to be there.” She glances at her watch. “But if you don’t show up to this court hearing, you risk losing any chance at trying, and I know you can’t want that. Please, Beth, for Dylan’s sake. For your sake. Do this.”

I stare at her, her face full of compassion and determination and strength, her hand still holding mine, and a sudden terror jolts through me, as if I’ve stuck my finger in an electric socket and gotten the mother of all shocks. It’s eight-fifteen.

“It’s too late,” I gasp the words out.

“No, it isn’t. Get dressed, and I’ll get the car. We can be there in ten minutes.”

“Traffic—”

“Get dressed!” Ally barks, and I lurch up from the sofa, already at a loss.

Gently but firmly she steers me to the bedroom.

Three minutes later, I am in the passenger seat of Ally’s car, wearing the same black shirt and white blouse I did for the first court hearing I missed. They’re both crumpled, my hair is a mess, and I’m carrying my shoes, a brush, and a lipstick. My whole body is shaking.

I’ve barely shut the door before Ally zooms off, racing down my street at forty miles an hour. “Ally—”

“We are not going to be late.”

“I’m so stupid,” I mutter, because I can’t believe I might have lost it all, and for what? I was feeling sorry for myself while pretending I wasn’t. But despair is an invisible, insidious enemy; it clouds your thinking and obscures your judgment until the most ridiculous thing feels rational. I’d talked myself into a terrible corner, and I know now I want out. I’m so thankful Ally came to find me. What if she hadn’t?

Because now that we’re speeding towards Hartford, I know one thing. I want my son back.

“You’re not stupid,” Ally tells me fiercely. “You’re strong and independent and you’ve got this. Now brush your hair.”