* * *
I was seventeen.
My mom asked me to go shopping with her. For groceries. She hates shopping for groceries and never goes in the middle of the day and never asks me to come with her.
I held my breath. My cheeks felt hot. I didn’t understand.
She noticed.
I went with her, I followed her at what I thought was a safe distance. A distance that was far enough for me to just watch and try and notice anything unfamiliar.
I didn’t.
We got in the car. I buckled quickly, sat back with a little too much oomph and stared straight ahead. She asked how I was. I said fine. I was still just fine.
She said she found something, in my hand writing, a scrap of paper. I still wrote on scraps I found around. And couldn’t always bring myself to throw them away and instead littered them around my room in places I thought would go unnoticed: under my bed, a sock drawer, in the corner under a chair.
She noticed.
She said it was ok. She said she understood, she said she was here for me.
I breathed out.
I breathed in.
I was seventeen.
My mom asked me to go shopping with her. For groceries. She hates shopping for groceries and never goes in the middle of the day and never asks me to come with her.
I held my breath. My cheeks felt hot. I didn’t understand.
She noticed.
I went with her, I followed her at what I thought was a safe distance. A distance that was far enough for me to just watch and try and notice anything unfamiliar.
I didn’t.
We got in the car. I buckled quickly, sat back with a little too much oomph and stared straight ahead. She asked how I was. I said fine. I was still just fine.
She said she found something, in my hand writing, a scrap of paper. I still wrote on scraps I found around. And couldn’t always bring myself to throw them away and instead littered them around my room in places I thought would go unnoticed: under my bed, a sock drawer, in the corner under a chair.
She noticed.
She said it was ok. She said she understood, she said she was here for me.
I breathed out.
I breathed in.
