A pinched sound catches in Jen’s throat. “That’s what I was afraid you’d say.”
I tip my head. “What do you mean?”
She peers up at the darkening sky, her chin trembling again. “I feel like I’m getting it all wrong. Like I’m failing Mia. Like I don’t have enough for her. I don’t know how to do my job other than how I did it for fourteen years before I had her, and how I’m doing my job is… demanding.
“I have so many students who are dealing with so much at home, in their communities. They need me to teach them, but they also need me to listen to their feelings, to be patient with them when they’re dysregulated, to believe in them, to push them toward their potential, to comfort them—”
“To be a mother to them,” I say softly.
I’ve only ever read about riptides, but this feels like one that just yanked me out to sea. A minute ago, I was safe at shore, water up to my waist, feet firm in the sand. And now I’m half a mile out in the ocean, disoriented. Floating in a vast, terrifying possibility.
Jen is doing a daunting, overwhelming job because she’s doing it with her whole heart, the only way I could ever stomach doing my work—pouring myself into it, giving it my best. And I have no idea what it looks like to be torn between giving my work my best and somehow safeguarding, preserving enoughbestfor my child.
That wave of sympathy submerges me in the truth, then wrenches me back up to the surface, and now I see it,feelit. The possibility that, like Jen, like me… my mom was doing her best. And no, it wasn’t good enough, wasn’t enough for what I needed,but… maybe that wasn’t all her fault, or even my dad’s fault; it definitely wasn’t mine, I know that the way I know Mia’s needing her mother’s presence, patience, affection, and guidance would never be Mia’s fault. Maybe it was really very much the fault of a much bigger, broken system.
My eyes well with tears.
Jen glances my way, her expression scrunching as she sees I’m crying, too. “Thea?”
“Are you doing the best you can?” I blurt.
Jen searches my eyes for a moment, then slowly nods. “Yes.”
“Right,” I tell her, trying to steady my voice. “And you’re sitting here, crying to someone you hardly know, because you’re so torn up after reading a book about a broken world and wounded daughters and oppressed mothers, and your heart went straight to what matters most: your daughter.
“You’re worried that you’re failing her, and to me means you are absolutelynotdoing that, or if you are, in this moment, you’re not going tokeepdoing that. You’re going to look at what you have and what you need. So you can find a way to give your work all that you need to and give Mia what she needs as well. I know you love her enough to figure that out.”
Hitching yourself to my self-centered ex,I want to say, is probably not going to give you what you need.
But it’s not my place to tell her that. And maybe, just maybe, Ethan’s going to be better to her than we was to me. I pull my hand from her knee and sit back.
Jen says quietly, “I’m worried it’s too late.”
“Mia’s six,” I tell her. “And I know those first six years are pretty important ones, but so is the rest of her life.”
She nods. “True.”
“I’m not a mom. I have no idea what you’re going through, but I am a daughter whose mom made mistakes. And that’s okay. She was human; humans do that. That wasn’t how she failed me, Jen. She failed me because… she never faced her mistakes. Because she taught me not to ask her to face them, either, taught me to bury my hurt and hide what I needed. That’s what went sideways—not the mistakes, but how she handled them. How shedidn’thandle them.
“Mia’s not me, and you’re not my mother, but I can tell you, if mistakes had been handled rather than avoided, even if all those mistakes still happened, I know I’d be talking to my mom a lot more.”
It sinks in, as I say it, how true that is. How much it would mean if my mom were to call me and wedidtalk about the past, even now. It would hurt that it had taken this long, come so late. But it wouldn’t betoolate. It wouldn’t fix the past, but it could help me heal from it.
Jen peers over at me. “Thank you.”
I swallow, blinking away tears. “I probably just said way too much.”
“No. You said just the right amount.” Smiling, she reaches for my hand and squeezes. “You’re a good person, Thea. I’m really glad you’re in Mia’s life.”
With those words, Jen stands, hugging Mia’s sweater tight to her chest, and walks across the parking lot.
For a while, I sit there, my chest tight, tears blurring my vision.
And then I fumble for my phone, texting my therapist. Sue’s reminded me regularly, if I ever have a rough day and need support, to reach out; if she can give me a call, talk me through it for a few minutes, she will. I’ve never taken her up on that offer before tonight. I’ve wanted to a few times, but I always worried I’d be imposing; I talked myself down, told myself it wasn’t that serious, that it could wait until our next session.
This cannot wait.
After sending my text to Sue, I shove my phone away, wiping frantically at the tear tracks on my cheeks. I tell myself there’s a good chance Sue will be unavailable, that her work phone will be powered off for the night.