Close, #FMFparty

Ephemera

No, we weren’t close, my mother and me. I feel guilty, even though there is very little I could have done about it. The one incident I remember:

After cleaning up the dinner dishes — I was about thirteen — and loading the dishwasher, I said, “I’m just so lonely.” We hugged, a long hug. We lived far out in the country — I had no brothers or sisters. No neighbors. I wished I had a brother or sister and I said so.

“Why didn’t you adopt?” I asked after she said she wished there were more children too. I’d never felt so close to her.

“Well, you know,” she explained, “when you adopt a child, you really don’t know what you’re getting. These babies, they don’t always come from the right sort of people.”

Slowly, I pulled myself away from the hug and never hugged her again fully, not until a few months before she died.

How could she look at babies like that?

No, we weren’t close.

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The Author

I read and I write and I think. I survive.

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  1. Pingback: Hands: #FMFparty #FMFriday #FiveMinuteFriday | white pebble

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