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“I’m not sure why you’re talking to me,” Margret says, her tone full of suspicion.
“I’m not really sure who else to reach out to. He severed most ties when he left.” I lay back on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, remembering easier times when we’d talk, laugh, and discuss our futures.
She sighs. “I know. I want to fix things.”
I stay quiet, not wanting to tell her that, from where I’d stood in the flower shop, it seemed more like she wanted to destroy him.
She seems to understand my silence. “It’s just... difficult. When I see him or talk to him, it drags up all the pain from the past.”
“I don’t want to pry,” I say, hoping my next words aren’t taken wrong, “but have you tried therapy to help you heal so you can try to start over with him?”
“Therapy can’t change what happened.” She doesn't sound committed to her stance, and I gently nudge.
“No, it won’t. But it might offer you tools to repair things as much as they can be, and give you hope for a future with your son in it.” I want what’s best for him, and this seems like the right route. He needs his family. He needs to be loved. She’s right, it won’t undo the past, but it’ll help their future.
I hear her breath catch on the other end of the phone. “I never wanted things to be this way. I wanted to fix it. But every time I see him, all that old anger and hurt just bubble back up.”
I'm still curious about what she means, but I don't want to push. “I know, the past has a way of hurting us over and over again.” If someone asked me what I’d be doing today, comforting Fredrick’s mother would never have made the list.
I wake up to an empty bed, the sheets cold to the touch. My heart sinks as I remember yesterday. I grab my phone and try to call Fredrick. He doesn't pick up.
So, I decide to text, instead. Hey, it's me again. Please let me know you're okay.
A few moments later, my phone vibrates in my hands.
I'm fine.
My stomach churns painfully with anxiety. I don't know how to help. And I can't shake off the guilt of what I said to him before and how that might be contributing to what he’s going through.
Sorry for bothering you. I type back. Let me know if you need anything.
I put my phone down beside my pillow and sit up. Taking a deep breath, I try to calm myself down. That's when I notice my mom watching me from the doorway, concern etched on her face.
“Is everything alright?” she asks gently.
I force a smile and nod. “Yeah.”
She gives me that motherly knowing glance but doesn’t press me for details. Instead, she says, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
I shake my head, not sure how she could help... or if I could tell her what’s going on at all. “No, it's okay. How are you feeling today?” With that, I stand up and hurry to get dressed.
“Feeling okay. Tired,” she says as I finish dressing and make my way to her. Taking her wheelchair in hand, I guide her through the house. With a sigh, she glances at Emma’s empty room. “It's hard,” she says softly. “I miss her so much.”
“Me, too,” I say, the words almost choking me as tears sting in my eyes. “But we'll get through this. I promise.”
I bring her into the kitchen so she doesn't have to sit alone and begin working on her breakfast. But we’re each silent, lost in our own thoughts.
When I settle Mom at the table with her breakfast, I glance up and catch sight of Alex slipping on his jacket. I open my mouth to say something, but I can't get any words out. He looks up and catches me looking at him, a smile playing at the corners of his lips.
“Where are you going?” I ask, finally managing to form words as mom lowers her fork to her plate with a soft click, warning both of us that she’s listening.
“Out,” he replies, his tone clipped as he adjusts his crutches.
“Out where?” Did he forget he can't even walk?
His hands still on his zipper as he studies my face. “Does it matter?”
“Yes, it does. You're my brother, and I worry about you.” I don’t want to glance at mom, but I’m surprised she’s not stepping in.
