Page 7 of Emmett

“Jeez, cut your hair a little bit and you’d look just like him,” a woman says as she approaches, and I comb my fingers through my hair on reflex.

She looks different from the pictures I’ve seen, but she’s still just as beautiful. She has big blue eyes, so mine are all Dad. I think we have the same nose, though. Her hair is dyed a yellow blonde color with a couple of inches of roots growing from her scalp which are the same dark blonde that makes up my own head of hair. Her frame is thin, hugged by a tight pink blouse that she wears half tucked into a pair of light wash jeans which stop just short of a pair of bright yellow stiletto heels strapped around her ankles.

I stand to greet her, offering my hand. “Anna?”

“That’s me,” she says as she takes my hand in a firm shake.

“Thank you for coming,” I tell her. My nerves and excitement practically bubble into every word despite my efforts to keep them at bay. “I’m really happy to meet you. Please, sit.”

I rush to the other side of the two-top table to pull the chair out for her like my dad taught me to do.

“Justlike him.”

Once she’s seated, I scoot her seat in closer to the table and return to my own, anxiously picking at the skin of my thumb with my index finger.

I’ve wondered about her since the moment I realized that almost all of my peers had two parents and I didn’t. I’ve wanted to talk to her, to know if she regretted leaving me behind. I’ve wanted to know if I got my ticklish neck from her or if she’s the one who gave me the dimple on the left side of my mouth when I smile.

I’ve wondered if she has the same darkness in her that I plaster a smile over top of.

I have spent my life waiting for her to walk back into it, and now she’s really here, right within my grasp.

Several minutes of uncomfortable silence pass, the only conversation happening at the table being that of Anna ordering a coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. It takes a while for us to settle into equally uncomfortable small talk about things that don’t matter, like the weather, or the newest season of the TV show that we both happen to like.

“So, um,” I finally say, taking a deep, steadying breath. “Did you ever— I mean, do I have—”

“I had one more, a year after you,” she nods. “He stayed with his dad, too.”

“Oh.”

I shouldn’t feel relieved that she didn’t keep him. If he’s dealt with any of the questioning or doubt that I have in my life, I should be heartbroken for the guy. Maybe I’ll try to find him and we can connect. Maybe it’s none of my business and I should just keep my distance from the whole thing altogether. If he wanted to know his brother, he would havelooked me up by now, wouldn’t he? I would have looked for him.

“I kept tabs on your dad,” she says, changing the subject as she pours a fourth pot of half and half into her coffee. “I saw that he started up his own company. And you’re working for him now, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ve been working there for a while now. I was actually offered part ownership not that long ago, so that was pretty huge,” I tell her proudly.

I find myself craving her approval, almost desperate for it. I want my mom to look me in the eye and tell me that she’s proud of me.

“Wow.” She scrapes her fork against her plate as she scoops up a bite of her eggs. “You must be successful, then. Doing pretty well for yourselves.”

“Yeah,” I laugh nervously, “we do alright. How about you? What do you do?”

“I work here.”

“Oh that’s cool,” I say. “Do you like it here?”

“It’s fine.” She pokes around on her plate for minute before speaking again. “Listen, is there a specific reason you wanted to meet with me? I mean…”

I can feel my face fall in spite of the effort that I put forward to hold my plastered-on smile in place. My heart starts to pick up its pace, beating faster and harder against my rib cage, and my hand clenches my half-empty coffee mug more tightly.

“I just— I thought maybe you’d like to connect. It’s been a long time, and I—” I hesitate as I stumble over my words. “I thought I’d get to know you. It’s been twenty-five years and I wanted to meet my mom.”

“Look, I’m sorry, but that part of my life is over, and I don’t like to revisit it,” she says, picking at a thread on the sleeve of her shirt. “I have a life now. I’m really not your mom, not in the way you want me to be. I can give you closure, but I can’t give you…this.”

Closure? I don’t want closure. I want to make up for the past twenty-five years.

I’ve waited so long for her. I spent years dreaming about what it would be like to have my mom in my life; pouring milk over my cereal in the morning or licking her thumb to smooth back a stray hair like they do in the movies. I’ve wondered what it would feel like to think ‘I want my mom’ and to have her there to wrap her arms around me and comfort me. I wanted my mom so many times, I lost count.

But my mom doesn’t wantme.