This story is by Tina Mollie Fisher and was part of our 2021 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.
In a courtroom, double jeopardy means that a person can’t be tried twice for the same offense. In a family setting, it’s called motherhood, and those rules don’t apply.
“You left us alone in the car…to buy a brisket!”
“Don’t be so dramatic. You weren’t alone. You were with your sister.”
“And I left you, listening to Carol King’s Tapestry album on cassette. Here’s a tip, kiddos, where I lead, I don’t always need you to follow.”
Maya Angelou knows. If I would have known better, I could have done better. But, if that were the case, we would not be here, in Ms. April’s office, just like every other Tuesday at four o’clock, for the last year and a half, rehashing my every misstep, and the core reasons for all that is not bright and shiny, and perfect in their world.
Ms. April sat there quietly listening, taking notes.
“They don’t have any idea what it was like for me. Their world consists of weekly trips to the outlet mall, the nail salon, extended chair time for highlights and low lights. They have monthly memberships to the wash and wax. One of them, I won’t say which, has a different bra for every single day of the month.”
“You’re just jealous,” said the daughter with the most stylishly supported breasts.
“I’m not jealous. I’m annoyed by the excess. And how you don’t seem to appreciate any of it.”
“You’re just a miserable &*#@# and you want us to be too.”
“Nope. Not it.”
If only I would have provided them with more love, more structure, less tone. I might not be sitting here frustrated, on this too orange couch, staring at these trendy shiplap walls, wondering if the bamboo in the shiny navy planter is fake or real.
“I think it’s important we find out where the disrespect is coming from,” she said, looking at me like I might know the answer. Like I was the answer.
“I know where it comes from,” I offered.
“You do?”
“It comes from their mouths,” I said.
Because I’m helpful like that.
The youngest, just a baby at thirty-two, jumped in frantically, “Do you see what we have to deal with? She’s impossible!”
“Next she’ll say something that’s supposed to sound sweet, but lands on our ears like nails on a chalkboard.”
“What will she say?” Ms. April asked, appearing quite interested.
“God works all things for good for those who love him,” Lizzie mimicked.
“Yep,” Emma agreed, “Or, with God, all things are possible.”
“I’m beginning to wonder,” I said smartly.
“I don’t think that’s helpful, or constructive,” Ms. April said, looking directly at me like she suddenly forgot who was paying for these ridiculous therapy sessions. I raised my eyebrows. She smiled, then nervously started smoothing the creases out of her houndstooth pencil skirt.
Do people still wear houndstooth?
“Why don’t you try telling her how you feel?” Ms. April suggested.
“Mom, we just want you to acknowledge what you’ve done.”
“I have and I do. But I feel like we’ve gone over this a million times. How many sorry’s can one person say?”
The witness offered further testimony. “On the day of the school costume parade, you forgot our costumes.”
“I know. And I felt terrible. Sick to my stomach, terrible. You were supposed to be Alice in Wonderland and instead, you had to parade through the halls dressed as a neglected child,” I jested. “In brand name tennis shoes.”
“It’s not funny!”
And I knew it wasn’t. I remembered that day as clearly as they did. Yet, they couldn’t seem to recall all the times I’d stayed up hours after they’d gone to bed, putting finishing touches on school projects, or making hand-painted cookies for the class Halloween party, the love notes tucked into lunchboxes.
The bad days are the remembered days.
It was impossible for all of us to forget the consequences, the constant imbalance of single parenthood, the tipping of the scales, and my emotions when work demanded just as much as the kids did.
“We’re here to talk about how we can move forward from the past,” the therapist said, brightly.
I’ve spent my time with Jesus. I don’t need these sixty minutes. But they do. I have unfinished books to read and weeds to pull from my spring vegetable garden. I have new recipes to try and a journal with white space to fill.
The very worst thing about true repentance is that it doesn’t automatically fix what we’ve broken. And I know if we’re not able to work through it here, in this stark, but still somehow cozy space, we might go on this way forever. They’ll keep holding onto resentments and grudges tighter than they ever held my hand to cross a busy street.
I don’t need their harsh and constant reminders. My conscience on overdrive has kept me company, way more than they have. I’ve replayed those rageful moments when I lost my temper, the times I let my guard down and trusted untrustworthy people. And I can still see those days, when minute by minute and moment by moment, our lives were shattered from the inside out.
Those stories aren’t funny. They’re darker than Grimm’s. Healing needs to happen. I just don’t know how it will. I’ve heard it said that tragedy plus time becomes comedy.
Surely, we must all be hilarious by now.
It’s been over fifteen years, and I still can’t live down that tragic Easter Sunday. The day I substituted home-grown, garden fresh green beans for the kind that comes in a can. A dinner plate shoved across the table in total disgust. I ruined Easter and our family’s favorite, green bean casserole recipe. It seems I’ve been ruining their lives ever since.
The truth is, I’m guilty. I really did wonder that resurrection day, after they showed up late, just how many marshmallow chicks could I shove down their ungrateful mouths? They complained about every single thing I did. And no matter what I did, it was almost always, the wrong thing.
In our family court of law, I’m repeatedly charged for the same crimes. Hung on the cross, right next to Jesus, the thief, and the murderer. In between my, “Our father who art in heaven,” prayers and the secret pleas of, “Dear Jesus, take me now,” I wonder if I’ll ever be with him in paradise.
Maybe this mother’s burden, this fate worse than death, is being convicted over and over by the very people I love the most. Maybe this is the cross I’ll have to bear every day, for all of eternity.
God, no.
“Emma makes the best green bean casserole on the planet!” I blurted.
“Does she?” the therapist asked.
“Yes. They’re amazing. She uses a different kind of green beans.”
Emma’s face seemed to light up. She sat taller in her chair.
“I add a can of the Italian seasoned ones.”
Her sister agreed, “They’re soooo good.”
“What else do you love about your girls?”
“I love the sound of their laughter, even though it’s almost always, like mine, way too
loud. I love the way Lizzie’s nose crinkles when she thinks something is really funny. She’s done that since she was like, three.”
“Anything else?”
“I love that there are things they do way better than me. Just last week Lizzie showed me it’s actually possible to wash a load of laundry, move it to the dryer, then fold it and put it away, all in the same afternoon.” Lizzie beamed.
“Who knew?”
They laughed.
“I’m not kidding. We are wash and wear kind of girls. It was inspiring.”
“Now, if we could just get the wrinkles out of these difficult mother-daughter relationships,” I said sincerely. “They’re stiffly creased and extra starched. Like a cowboy’s pair of Wranglers on rodeo night.”
Emma interrupted, “Oh, my gosh, remember that guy who…”
And that was it.
Together, we all laughed, too loudly, because who could forget a lame pick-up line like that? The air in the room that had been thick and suffocating, was lighter, breathable again. It’s true. Laughter is good medicine.
“I’m sorry, ladies,” Ms. April interrupted, “We’re over our time. Is there anything else?”
“Holy forgiveness and an extended vacation would be good?” I joked.
Emma said, “I-I was actually wondering if we could maybe have Easter at your house this year, mom?”
“You were?”
“Yeah. I could bring my green bean casserole.”
“I’ll come too,” Lizzie added.
My eyes got glossy; tears started to well. “Sure,” I smiled, “That would be perfect.”
We stood from the couch and shared a hug that felt more like a promise. I stopped myself from quoting a happy, familiar verse. But silently, as we left the room, one after the other, I whispered thanks to my faithful God. The one who heals the brokenhearted, redeems and restores.
The one who truly makes all things possible.
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