Underneath the Sycamore Tree

Kaiden sinks into his seat, and his comfort tells me he’s getting ready to settle into a conversation I don’t want him to begin. “Why didn’t you call her?”

I tense.

Mama lips part slightly.

He reaches out and sips his water. “Just seems strange that you’d let a man who left his family let his daughter move in with him without a fight.”

I kick him under the table, but he doesn’t even flinch.

He sets his glass down. “I acknowledge that it’s none of my business, but your daughter does live with me now. Since you don’t seem to care, somebody has to.”

“Kaiden,” I warn.

He won’t look anywhere but Mama.

She blinks rapidly, and when her head moves I see the slight shine to her teary eyes. I close mine, not wanting to see the color change.

“You’re right,” she says softly.

My eyes snap open.

She’s looking at him, not me. “I can’t sit here and pretend like I’ve been a good mother to Emery.”

Surprise colors my face.

Her eyes shift to mine. “Sunshine, I need to get better. I need…you to get better.” I hold my breath, praying she doesn’t say more on the topic. She gives me the smallest, saddest smile. “I signed up for a support group a while ago. One of my coworkers left a brochure on my desk and I couldn’t throw it out. I know I should have gone a long time ago, but…”

But what?

But you were scared?

But you were in denial?

But you thought you were fine?

“It’s been helping. They suggested I put Logan’s pictures in an album and change up your old bedroom for something new. I…I visit her grave a few times a week. They made me accept that I’ve treated everything since her death so poorly, and I can’t apologize enough to you for that. I don’t know how to fix it, which is why I thought you seeing your father would be best. You and him…he deserves to have you back in his life, Sunshine.

“Having you here means the world to me, and I haven’t shown it,” she continues, reaching out to me. “Maybe once I get more of the help I should have accepted years ago, we can try this again. I need—” She closes her eyes and squeezes my hand, and I accept the pain—both hers and my own. “I just need more time. You’ve given me years and so much love, so I hate to ask for more. But it’s what I need.”

Time.

Time is my greatest enemy.

Doesn’t she understand that?

But then I look at her. Really look.

I see the features I notice on my face when I chance a look in the mirror. I see heartache and pain and unspoken emotion in the bags beneath her eyes. Her cheeks aren’t damp and people aren’t staring and there’s nothing out of the ordinary about us.

We’re a family having dinner.

We’re a family with problems. We’re riddled with imperfections and flaws and struggles like anyone else in the room.

We’re just buried in years worth of pent up frustration

and anger and guilt over it.

She wants time.