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.The tension holding me upright evaporates when the sound of the door reaches me.I sag and slide downward on the wall until I’m sitting.Rushed footsteps approach.My mom glances around the kitchen briefly before she sees me sitting on the floor.She moves the recycling bin out of the way so she can sit down next to me.Putting her hand on my knee, she gives it a squeeze as I drop my head to her shoulder.Tingles precede the numbness as my tailbone protests the tiled floor.“He wanted to talk with you.”I shake my head and start to stand.“He no longer gets what he wants when it comes to me.”“You were together a long time, sweetie.”I refrain from snapping, silently counting to ten, and offering my hand to help her up, before I reply, “This isn’t something we’ll ever be able to work out, Mom.”Her lack of anger when it comes to what Mike did makes me wonder if she ever went through a similar situation herself.That whole “stand by your man” concept has never set right with me.What about standing by your woman and keeping it in your fucking pants? What about that?My tea is cold and I don’t feel like zapping it.In silence, I pour it out, watching it flow down the drain.My mother’s concerned eyes are a weight against my shoulder blades.I leave the kitchen and use checking email as an excuse to ignore the same wall of boxes now in the living room.I think about asking my mom if she’ll unload them.The idea of Mike’s hands being the last to touch my things doesn’t feel right.Maybe she can wash my clothes for me, erasing his fingerprints from them before I have to see them again.An email from my mother’s lawyer friend pulls my attention away from the boxes.I read it twice before calling my mom in to make sure I’m not reading it wrong.“They want to settle?”She shrugs.“I guess it means they don’t want to go to court.”“But does it mean they’re admitting firing me was wrong?”She frowns.“I don’t know.Are there any other emails?”I double check my inbox and check my junk folder as well to be safe.“Should I call him or just email him?”She fluffs her hair.“How about I call him and try to sweet talk it out of him?”Mothers never stop being embarrassing.I love her so much, but the idea of her sweet-talking anyone is cringe worthy.“I’m not really sure this needs that, Mom.I’m pretty sure if I ask him, he’ll tell me.Unless, do you want to call him?”She blushes.“What? No, I mean, only if it would help you.I’m not thinking about me at all.”Right, but I figure it can’t hurt to give her an excuse to call him.“Maybe it would be best if you called him.”Her eyes widen.“You think?”“Sure.Why not?”Not wanting to watch my mother attempt to flirt, I decide to brave my way past the boxes and up to my room.I take a shower giving myself an internal pep talk about tackling the boxes on my own.I’m thirty; I shouldn’t need my mother to manage my breakup.I change into some yoga pants and borrow an old t-shirt from my mom.The positive outcome of being a big girl and going through the boxes, is my wardrobe is about to triple.I go into unpacking mode with a clear plan of attack.My clothes will all be washed, whether they appear to be clean or not.There is some closure in that.Any type of photo album or keepsake from our life together will be avoided at all costs.No lingering, no reminiscing; any of those items will immediately be moved to another box to deal with at a later date, if ever.Books will be split into read and not read.The read can stay boxed until I have a more permanent living situation.I love my mom and that she has provided me a comfortable place to crash.I can’t get too comfortable here; I want independence.I’m on the second box of clothes when my mom comes out of her office.“So, you were on the phone a long time.”She gives me a small smile.I groan.“Are you going to tell me what he said?”She moves to sit next to me and pulls a third box toward her.“You can probably have your job back, if you want it.”“I don’t ever want to go back there [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]