A woman from the school touched my arm and told us to take all the time we needed.
Later, after the music started again and the students went back to pretending none of them had just been emotionally flattened, Lisa and I sat in the car outside the school. Neither of us was ready to go home yet.
She picked at a loose thread on her jeans and finally asked, “Are you mad?”
I looked at her for a long moment.
“Mad is not the word.”
She winced a little. “Okay.”
Then she stared down at her hands.
I let out this wet, broken laugh. “I thought I was going to have a heart attack when you walked out in that jacket.”
“Sorry.”
“I was confused. Then horrified. Then offended on behalf of silk.”
That made her smile, but only for a second.
Then she got quiet again.
“I just couldn’t wear it,” she said. “Once I figured it out.”
“How did you know?”
She looked guilty. “I was looking for gum in your purse and found the salon receipt.”
I closed my eyes and laughed again, this time because there was nothing else left to do.
“I wanted to be mad at you,” she said. “But mostly I just felt… small. Like I had no idea how much you were carrying.”
I reached over and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.
“You are not supposed to carry me,” I said. “I’m the mom.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But I can still love you.”
When we got home, she handed me an envelope.
Inside was the trip confirmation. Three days. A small beach town. A modest hotel. Nothing extravagant. Which somehow made it feel even more real.
There was also a folded note.
It said:
You gave up something you loved so I could have one night. I want you to have something better. I want you to have a reason to believe life can still be good. Dad would still call you Rapunzel. I just think he would also call you brave.
I went into the bathroom after that and stood in front of the mirror.
I looked at my shorter hair. At my tired face. At the woman grief had carved down and rearranged over the last eleven months.
But for the first time since the haircut, I didn’t see only what was missing.
That night Lisa fell asleep on the couch with her head in my lap, still wearing that shirt. I sat there brushing my fingers through her hair while the house held its breath around us.
Across from me, on the bookshelf, there’s a framed picture of my husband. He’s smiling in it the way he always did when he knew something funny before anyone else had caught up.
I looked at that picture and whispered, “We miss you. But I think we’re going to be okay.”
And for the first time since he died, I believed it.
Leave a Comment