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The afternoon is something I once believed I had lost forever. My mother and I move between boutiques without discussing my weight, whether my purchases will impress Lance, or which version of myself the women inside each store might approve of. She asks what I like and believes my answer. I tell her when something she chooses looks terrible. She ignores me and buys it anyway.
But she accepts what I choose for myself, and I give her the same freedom. She is living her best life as a soon-to-be divorcée. Lance refuses to sign the papers, but I doubt she will ever take him back. For now, I’m letting her choose her own path without holding the battle inside her against her.
Our relationship has become surprisingly functional since I stopped controlling every conversation enough to protect her from discomfort.
By the time we reach the restaurant, shopping bags cover the back seat of her car and my feet hurt badly enough that I regret choosing heels. The restaurant has white tablecloths, a five-star reputation, and a cheeseburger expensive enough to require its own financial adviser.
I order it with fries.
My mother orders the same.
The server leaves, and I stare at her. “Who are you?”
“I enjoy cheeseburgers.”
“You used to remove the bun.”
“I used to do many foolish things.”
“If I talked to Lance I would tell him you’re eating carbohydrates.”
“Your father and I are getting divorced, darling. The mystery of whether I still care what he thinks is gone.”
I laugh while she lifts her wine.
When the food arrives, I eat without studying how much remains on her plate. The thoughts still appear occasionally. They suggest I remove the bun, leave half the fries, or compensate later for the decision to enjoy lunch. Recovery didn’t remove every cruel voice from my head. It taught me that hearing one doesn’t mean I have to obey it.
I dip another fry into ketchup.
Life is short. The burger is excellent, and I have wasted enough meals pretending hunger is a moral failure.
My mother watches me for a moment before looking down at her own food.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t nothing.”
Her eyes lift. “I was thinking you seem happy.”
“I am.”
“Ryan?”
The name still reaches beneath my ribs, but I don’t let the pain decide what it means. “I haven’t spoken to him.”
“Not once?”
“No.”
“Have you wanted to?”
“Every day.”
She waits for the rest.
“He asked me not to come back with promises made because I was scared. I’m respecting that.”
