When I arrive home, it’s a little later than what I expected. I dropped by the DMV, filled out some paperwork for a new driver’s ID and got my picture taken. The process took a bit longer than was warranted.

When I step inside the house, everything is pitch black. No lights have been turned on, and as it was a little after six, there was no meal being, or having been, prepared. Mom’s bedroom door was still closed. But no light was shining from beneath the base.

I flicked on the hallway light and strode over to the door. I cracked it and sifted my fingers against the wall to find the light switch. Finding it, I turned on the pale LED, illuminating the olive green walls and white trim that made up the interior of my mother’s room. I opened the door wider and saw my mother’s form wound tightly atop her made bed. The comforter was crinkled ever so slightly because of previous movements. But, as of now, she was stock still. Yet, I saw the steady rise and fall of her chest, and easily concluded that she was sleeping.

I removed myself back into the hallway and kicked off my sneakers. Then I silently crept into my mother’s room, climbed into her bed, and cuddled myself around her. She pleasantly sighed in her sleep, but didn’t stir or wake. Mindlessly, her hands crept up to hold mine. I knew the warmth of my palms were what drew her sleeping limbs. Her hands were reacting as if my father had never left. Sadly, I guess, now I was in the position to love and care for her - in a different, more daughterly way, of course.

So, as of now, I snuggled with my sleeping mother, and before I knew it, fell asleep on her shoulder.

When I awoke, it was to a light, loving touch that I automatically knew to be my mother’s. It was the same touch she’d always awoken me with as a child.

The smell of barbequed beef wafted throughout the house. My stomach told my mind that most likely it was my favorite: ribs. Barbequed ribs, corn, and tater-tots, my nose diffused and my mind complied.

My mother silently walked ahead out of the room after she saw that I was awake. I eased myself off the bed and followed, setting my drowsy bum down at the table. My eyes were still a bit bleary with tiredness, and my mind a bit clouded. So, I didn’t say much for a few minutes except to ask my mother if she’d pass the corn, or the pan ot tater-tots, or the plate of juicy ribs. After my mouth had grown accustomed to chewing the dinner, and my mind more wakeful as it became aware of the time of day, I chose to tell my mother what I’d done, especially seeing that now might be a good enough time, if any.

Her fork dropped upon my telling her that I changed my last name to her maiden name. I couldn’t tell whether she was angry or approving of what I’d done. But, after about a minute of staring at each other, her slack-jawed and me in nervous anticipation, she picked her fork back up from where it fell on the table and continued to chew at the meal in front of her.

“Well?” I asked as if I were younger again and wanting approval on a project.

“Well what?” my mother returned.

“How do you feel about my having done that?”

“What’s done is done, Mickey. You’re eighteen, I have no more rights to tell you what to do. If you would’ve kept your father’s last name, I would’ve understood, as you are a part of his bloodline. Yet, I also understand why you may have wanted to take my maiden name. You want to purge yourself from the rights and blood of your father. Am I right?”

I nodded, slowly chewing on a fatty piece from my rib. “He never loved me. A father should be there for his child. Mine never was there. I think I should feel more related to the person who showed me love and cared for me throughout my childhood by taking that last name.”

I eyed my mother wearily. She’d stopped chewing and her fork was softly replaced against the lip of her plate. Her hands were clasped beneath her nose as she watched me. I swear I saw tears prickle at the corners of her eyes.

“Your daddy did love you. You just don’t remember the side of that man when you were really young. He could never let go of you. He always had a smile on his face when you tottered into the living room, or when you came into our bedroom in the morning.” My mother shook her head. “It all went downhill, somehow, after you became thirteen. No more smile on that man. No more getting through to him. Always shying away from me, his loyal wife.” She half spat the last couple of words as if it left a bad taste in her mouth. I didn’t blame her. “I’m surprised it lasted four years before I found out, and divorced him.”

Mom stopped. I didn’t push her to go on. We both knew what happened after that. My dad married another woman right after the divorce. It was like a slap to my mother’s face. It was like a thunderbolt came crashing down on the both of us. Of course, it was worse for my mother. But, after my dad left and remarried some younger chick, I was dead inside. He still requested that I see him every month, and even went for child support for the month I had left of being considered a child. Thankfully that didn’t work out, and no more had to be brought upon my hurting mother. But, I fought and eventually found excuses not to go visit my dad. A lot of “I have plans with friends” or “I’m working” or “mom and I have plans/are taking a trip” where a part of my excuses. As the weeks turned into months, he barely bothered me. This past time, though, he nagged, and after I went, I swore I would never come back. I even told him that I never wanted to visit him again. I saw the hurt cross his face as I said this, but what did I care when he caused my mother and I more pain than what he could ever imagine. The hour ride back from his new place felt more like a relief. A homecoming. Finally, I was free of him.

I went back to eating my dinner. Soon, I was going for seconds, then half a third. Back to my sixth rib, my eyes turned to my mother. She was smiling at me with one of those proud, motherly smiles. She reached over the table towards my hand, and taking it in hers, squeezed with an affectionate intensity. “I appreciate having my beloved daughter with me. Thank-you for coming in to be with me earlier.”

“I felt bad about what I said earlier. I was in a fit of anger after visiting him, and I knew the pain was still raw. I removed the emotional scab too quickly today.”

“It’s alright, sweetheart… How’s dinner?”

“Excellent! Thank-you.”

With that, I lowered my gaze, once more, to my plate and continued eating till there were no remaining scraps.