Blessing

This story is by Jessica Deen and was part of our 2024 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

I was twenty-five. I sat down with my mom while we drank tea from my great grandmother’s keepsake cups, trying to steady my hand.

Swallowing hard, I said, “I have something to tell you.”

She shook her head and waved her hand in my face as she pushed her chair away from the oak table.

“You don’t need to tell me nothing, sugar.”

“Yes, I..”

She slammed both of her palms onto the plastic strawberry table cloth and stared straight into my eyes.

“I said.” She dragged out the words. “You don’t need to tell me nothing.”

“I’m gay.”

I blurted it out. In my head I dreamed up more eloquent ways of telling her the truth, but she slapped me straight across the mouth before I could say anything else.

“You are NOT,” she howled as I reached up to touch my bloody lip that was already swelling and throbbing. “Don’t you DARE say anything like that in MY house, again!” Throwing the striped tea towel that had been slung over her shoulder into the sink, she stormed out the back door and let it slam behind her.

I listened to an entire episode of the game show she loved blasting on the TV in the living room while I waited for her to return. My mother was still sitting in a folding lawn chair beside the decrepit shed, staring at the driveway. Her folded arms covered her “Jesus Loves Me” T-shirt.

I placed our tea cups in the sink and washed them with the lemon-scented dish soap; the number one staple in my mom’s kitchen. I waited for her to come back in, but she didn’t move.

As I walked toward my car, I glanced behind me. She averted her eyes the second mine met hers. The lawn chair creaked as she folded it and she headed into the house without looking back.
Two wee

ks later, she showed up at my apartment unannounced.

“Can I come in?”

I gestured toward my corduroy armchair, to which she strode over and perched on the edge of the seat. She locked her eyes on the floor.

“Would you like anything? A snack?” I asked.

“No.”

“A coffee?”

“No.”

“Water?”

“No.”

Unsure of the words, I sat on the end of the couch closet to the corduroy chair and waited.

We sat in silence for minutes before she said, “God made you perfect in his way, honey.” She fidgeted with the handkerchief hanging from her purse straps, thumbing the edges. “I will help you overcome this.”

“Mom,” I couldn’t help looking heavenward. “This isn’t something I’m going to overcome.”

“See,” she wagged her finger, shaking her head. “I knew you were gonna say that, but see, even if you have those feelings, if you don’t act on them, you can keep from sinning. It’s the acts that are the sins.”

With each moment I let pass without debating, her gestures grew more animated and excited. Her arms waved around her to emphasize her points, oblivious to my twitching jaw muscles and flared nostrils. She clasped her hands together at her chest and said, “Pastor will counsel you…”

“No, thank you.”

“You can’t do it alone, son.” Desperation shook the edges of her words.

Rage pushed the words through my tight throat. “I have been doing it alone. I’ve been alone my whole life.”

My mother jumped back as if I’d hit her with an invisible dagger. “Would you stop saying that?” she yelled, her face twisted in a grimace.

“I am. Accept me as I am. This is who I am!”

“I DON’T accept it. I will not. I am not wavering in this. You listen to me right now. You will go to hell for this. Is that what you want?”

Her aggressive tone mimicked the voice she used on me as a child. I flinched and rounded my shoulders against the blows.

Softer this time, I said, “I just want to be myself. I’m not hurting anything…”

“Oh yes, you are. It’s breaking my heart to see my son turning away from Jesus.” She swiped at her eyes with her sleeves.

“Mom, I’m not turning away from Jesus.” I reached for her hand and she yanked it away, not allowing me to touch her. Shame burned my face and my hopes disintegrated in front of me.

She stood with her chin high, clutching her purse with white knuckles. Clearing her throat, she said, “Son, when you are ready to acknowledge your sins, you know where to find me.”
I didn’t see my mom for almost fifteen years.
________________________________________________________________

I sat at my mom’s bedside mere days after my fortieth birthday. Her words were barely audible over the hum of the surrounding machinery, but I could read her chapped lips.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

I shifted my weight in my vinyl seat.

Her eyes were wet and covered with the thick haze that comes with age. She wore a flannel nightgown that was two sizes too big and her hair spiked out at odd angles. Her crooked fingers fumbled to find their way out from under the hospital blanket and she reached out her hand to me.

The memory of bitterness filled my mouth; I resisted the urge to spit it out in her face. How dare she look to me for comfort after denying me the same compassion?

Sitting next to me, my husband leaned forward to grab my attention and gave a gentle nod toward my mother’s outstretched hand that still hovered, shaking in the air.

My chest tightened, and I pressed my eyes closed.

Less than a year ago, my mother offered an unforeseen apology over the phone.

I longed to dismiss her, to turn from her as she did from me, but authenticity etched all her sentiments as she recalled all the terrible moments that broke us apart. Each word held the same intensity that kept me up at night.

Truth is, I wanted my mother as much as she wanted her son.

I opened my eyes to reach out for my mother’s hand, but my husband was already holding it. He stroked the back of her age-spotted hand with his thumb and she squeezed him back.