Happy.
The next picture is the day Dad took Ashley and me on a fishing trip when I was seven. There were no fish all weekend, and Ashley fell into the water trying to chase a butterfly. Oh, and I got stung by bees so many times I couldn’t move without crying for a week straight. I remember he insisted we take a picture of the one and only fish we’d caught before we left. It was small.
And we ended up letting it go right after the picture.
In the photograph, Ashley is soaked from head to toe, I look like a strawberry field, thanks to the swarm of angry bees, and Dad is holding the tiny fish up in the air.
Worst trip of all time, right?
And yet… this is my favorite memory with him.
My gaze sweeps around the room. There isn’t one item in this place that isn’t my dad’s. She’s kept his old desk, the hideous leopard-print computer chair Dad found on the street when he was a broke eighteen-year-old.
She’s kept everything down to our last memory of him.
The last picture.
Mom took it ten minutes before the accident. He’s holding us up in the air, Ash in one arm and me in the other. We’re laughing like there’s no tomorrow. Little did we know, because of this exact moment, there would be no tomorrow.
For Dad, anyway.
“Does this look like forgetting him to you?” Mom’s voice is so weak, so fragile, I wonder how the tragically broken woman in front of me could appear whole for all these years.
But when she sinks to the floor, knees against the hardwood floor, crying into her hands, I understand…
That’s just it.
She was never whole.
She just appeared this way.
I’d never related to Mom before. Could barely believe we shared DNA for a while, but right now, looking at her, I see myself. Crying in my car alone at the springs while writing a letter.
I want to hug her, but Ashley beats me to it, plopping down on the floor and snaking her arms around her. Mom reaches for Ashley’s clothes, fisting the fabric for reassurance. Ashley looks up at me, gesturing to join them with her chin.
My hands shaky, I settle by my mom’s side, until her daughters flank her. From the moment I enfold her right side with my arms, she begins to howl with sobs.
“I’m so sorry, girls. I thought…” Sniffle. “I thought I was protecting you.” She draws her hands away from her face, staring at me through teary eyes. “Especially you, Aveena. I didn’t know what to say to you after you… Jesus, you were so tiny.” She covers her mouth with her palm as though she can’t bear the thought. “When I found you crying on his lap… My baby girl, lying on her daddy’s body, I just… felt like I’d failed you as a mother. I was supposed to protect you.” She breaks into sobs again.
The only difference is, I’m crying, too.
I grip her hand and intertwine our fingers.
“I wanted to make you forget. I tried to go on like nothing happened so that you wouldn’t be haunted by Curt’s death for the rest of your life, like I was, but I ended up branding you with the memory, instead. By forbidding you to talk about it, I made you think about it more. And I couldn’t even touch you or hug you without falling apart and crying like a baby myself. God, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, Mom,” I whisper, the words aching in my throat like a handful of rose thorns.
“No, it’s not okay, honey. I knew you needed help the most, and I pushed you away because I… I couldn’t even begin to help myself.” Her fingers dart out to cup my face, and my breath jumps at the affectionate gesture. I can’t recall the last time she touched me like this. “I was so wrapped up in losing the love of my life, I didn’t realize my girls were mourning the loss of their father, and I’m sorry. To the both of you.”
I could never see it before…
But I can now.
Parents aren’t superheroes.
Superhumans.
They’re just humans,doing their best, making mistakes, getting knocked on their ass and crawling until they can get back up again. My sister and I make eye contact, a single look the vessel of a thousand words. Ash nods, giving me the green light to bury the hatchet, and I relieve myself of the burden I’ve been lugging around for eons.
“We forgive you, Mom,” I croak, throwing myself into her arms. Ash, Mom, and I stay on the floor, group hugging for five minutes. We cry, apologize, and cry some more.
“I love you. My beautiful girls,” Mom whispers.
Ash is crying too hard to form an answer, so I take over and utter the three little words we haven’t exchanged in nine years.
“I love you, Mom.”