By John Jeffire

Why she was invited for her son’s promotion, the banquet and celebration, she didn’t know. And by that, she did know—deep down, she knew—but the pain of knowing is not worth its admission.

So when or where does the story begin? Long ago, with school drawings and report cards kept in the bottom drawer of a scratched hutch in the living room? Prom photos still displayed in the hallway? Voicemails asking how the job is going, have you found someone? Or did it begin moments ago in his living room where she was sorting his laundry? No, of course not. Nothing begins where we say it begins. But that’s the only place to start—nowhere even close to the beginning. 

“I said not to do that.”

“What?” Of course she knew what. When she walked into the living room with his laundry basket, he had yelled from the kitchen to leave it alone, that his girlfriend would do it next week; it was one of the things she did for him. When he returned to the living room, she was caught in the act. She had never met the girlfriend. Her son kept no pictures of her, not even a smiling couple pose with clinking wine glasses at an outdoor cafe. She imagined that the girlfriend only existed for him when she was actually physically present. She tried to imagine the girl. What was the tone of her skin? The shade of her hair? Her scent? The sound of her laugh?

Nothing appeared.

“C’mon, Mom, the laundry. For Christ’s sake, I didn’t fly you out here to do laundry.”

Yes, he had paid for her flight (and the Uber ride to the airport and then to his apartment once she landed)—he knew she couldn’t afford it. She may have never gone to college (well, a year of nursing school before money ran out and she married his father), but she didn’t think of herself as dumb. No, she hadn’t read all the books her son had, but that doesn’t make a person dumb. She just never had the chance, and life made her a mother before she could become a nurse.

“I don’t mind.”

“I don’t care if you don’t mind. Just stop.”

The command in his voice stung. They’d had their differences, particularly in the decades since the custody fight. In these situations, someone has to be blamed, and it ended up being her. And his father and the in-laws made sure of that.

“Are you hungry?”

“No.”

She set down the shirt she was folding. Everything he owned now was of very high quality—the shirt alone was worth more than anything in her clothes dresser or closet.

“I could make you something quick.”

“I said, no. If you’re hungry I can order you something.”

She was a bit hungry but would wait for the banquet later. Last night after she arrived and settled in, they ate at a French place, very nice, very expensive, but he was occupied with his phone. She wanted him to take her to the grocery store and let her buy some things, pasta, some nice ground beef, spices, and she’d make homemade spaghetti—a lifetime ago, it was his favorite meal when they lived together, one they made together, mother and son, his tiny hands molding the meatballs, both of them smiling. Now, it seemed, nothing was good unless it was grand, expensive, beyond her means to ever equal.

She wondered if he felt the same about his father as he did about her. On their rare meetings, she was tempted to brush back her hair, her now graying hair, and reveal the scar along her temple, a trophy she’d received not long after he was born in an incident he would have no recollection of and that she kept hidden. She thought of that, but one evening years ago he told her it was his father who had taught him how to “be a man.” She was afraid of what that meant. She thought of explaining the years that ticked by with no alimony, no child support, no support of any kind, trying to keep a job and find a dependable sitter, the hopelessness of holding everything together. His father had the money, and he knew he could wait her out. Get a lawyer, people said. How? With what? So she lost. Her child. Her son. What mattered in the world.

Yes, losing is a hard, hurtful thing.

And, admittedly, she handled it wrong. Too many tears. Too many nights when sleep was impossible. A drink helped, and then a few drinks. And then lost jobs. Missed rent. Another husband. More losing. His father and everything in life reminded her of her failure.

He turns to his liquor display across the room and holds up a bottle. It is quite beautiful. The liquid is amber, like the sun tea they made together so long ago. 

“How about something to tide us over until dinner? Here, Dalmore. Aged eighteen years. Very good stuff.”

She knew why she was here. His father likely had already planned a golf outing or an event with his new family. His mother was still fit, though, her face was still pretty, she still had her figure, she would reflect well on him, but she was the consolation prize. It was better to have someone than no one.

She nods to her son.

He pours two glasses. It will taste good. It will taste good because it will be something shared, something they do together. But is it a trap? A test?  The set-up to an argument that started so long ago no one remembers where it really started? A justification for the tension that sits between them like a continent, another reminder of her failure?

She doesn’t care. Her son—her only child—pours two glasses. She smiles, needing this moment. A victory. Before she even tastes a drop, warmth fills her entire being.