Page 73 of The Second Chance Bus Stop

Svedala

‘Flower status?’ I ask, coming up behind Sophia and pushing an empty coffee cup into the sink in front of her. She smiles.

‘Lucky bamboo? Dracaena sanderana .’

I kiss the top of her head.

‘See you later. I’m headed to Mum’s.’

Sometimes the best way to resolve trauma and past heartbreaks is to just start living, to do the opposite of what it wants

us to do. Trauma wants us to stay scared, locked in our old ways and not move forward, and that’s what we have to be brave

enough to resist. This is exactly what Mum and I are finally doing—moving forward.

Mum has finally moved into her own apartment with a view over the garden.

It’s just down the corridor from the library and very far from the common sitting room, an important and non-negotiable requirement.

Sophia has taken her on a tour of the local amenities, entering each location as a pin on her phone map as they go along, as I’m putting the final touches to her new home.

The flat is perfect. Light, cosy and not at all what I had feared.

This is not an institution but a home. From her apartment she walks out into a corridor where the front door is clearly seen, and once pushed open she’ll find herself in a large, enclosed garden.

Benches lined along paths and a vegetable path in the far corner.

Mum is enjoying being the newest arrival and having neighbours stick their heads out of doors to spy on her or offer general advice.

‘Don’t go to Mindfulness. It’s basically just gaslighting yourself into thinking you’re doing great.

’ and ‘The liquor store does next-day delivery if you tell them you live here. VIP treatment.’

I’ve unpacked the bags and hung the very colourful clothing up. Her wardrobe reminds me of a Picasso painting with its yellows

and purples forming various patterns against the white shelves. I put the framed pictures up and deposit a stack of hardbacks

on a bookshelf. I have added a room fragrance stick to the cabinet, high enough for it to not spill over should a clumsy arm

lash out at it. At the bottom of the bag Mum packed herself, I find the bunch of flash cards. Some old and some recent, the

neatness of the handwriting giving their age away. I take out the empty white flash cards I’ve brought with me: They’re made

out of cardboard so sturdier and no risk of paper cuts. When I’m done writing I put them in the mix with Mum’s old ones. The

move will be disorientating, we’ve been told. She may struggle at first. We’ll be close by, though. Mum will be okay. I can

love her and be just her son now, not her carer. We can build a relationship where we get to know each other again.

Where we take a walk or grab one of those ridiculous Swedish bakery goods that always seem to be filled with fluffy vanilla-flavoured double cream.

A relationship where I’m not reminding her to take a pill or do her exercises, or feeling the desperation rise inside me as she won’t do what she’s told.

My shoulders sink low with relief at the thought of this new life.

I pull out the cards again and read the messages I wrote, hoping they’re as neutral and pain-free as possible.

Hoping my mum won’t relive the pain every single time she reads it.

Sven did come that afternoon in 1998. He always loved you and never forgot you. He lived a good life. He died in 2016.

Then I add the most important part of it all. What I hope she remembers when old feelings stir and push at her sanity.

Everyone makes wrong choices. Everyone has regrets. You lived a good life too.