"Can I make a call?"

The old man sitting at the reception was engrossed in a book. Hearing my question, he moves his gaze to me. Then he nods two times and goes back to the book.

"It might be a long call," I add.

The old man shrugs. So I grab the stool placed beside the counter and bring it closer to where the telephone is. I realized only a few minutes ago that I forgot to charge my phone yesterday, and now the battery is dead. But I didn't want to delay any further, afraid that my mind will trick me into changing my decision one way or the other. So here I am.

I dial the phone number on the cherry red telephone, then put the receiver against my ear, scratching my thumb with my index fingernail.

The call is picked up after three rings.

A sound of clearing throat. "Hello?"

My heart skips a beat, then begins to beat too fast. It's her. It's my mother. And I have suddenly lost all my words.

"Hello? Who is this?"

I need to say something. I need to say something right now, before she hangs up, before I go back to square one, just like I had back when I couldn't go visit Dawn's family. I can't let that happen. I can't.

So I squeeze my eyes shut. With a shaky voice, I muster the courage to say, "Mom, it's me."

Pin-drop silence from the other end. But then, a bit of shuffling. It's like I'm hearing my heartbeats from the receiver. The silence stretches for so long that for one, devastating moment, I actually think that she doesn't want to talk to me anymore.

But then, she says, "Cedar? Is this you?"

"Yes," I reply, tears filling my eyes immediately.

Another silence, but this one is short. "Is this really you?"

"Yes."

"Oh . . . oh, Cedar." I think I hear a sob, but I might be wrong. It might be my wishful thinking. But it might be true. I wait for her to say something. But she doesn't.

I'm not going to let it be that way. I've come all this way, I have to take this chance to convey everything I feel and think to her. But what should I say? Where should I start? What should be my first line?

"Hello?" mom says, her voice weak.

And that's when I know, how I want to start this conversation.

"Mom, how . . . are you?" I ask.

"M-me?" she asks, almost sounding confused.

I hold back my tears. "I heard you-" I gulp. "I heard you got hurt and were in the hospital. How are you now?" Something tells me her getting hurt wasn't an accident.

"Did Dale tell you?" she asks instead, a glimmer of hope in her tone.

"Yes," I reply. Indirectly, at least.

"I . . . I am okay, now. What about you? Cedar, how have you been? All by yourself . . . how . . . all this time . . ." She can't seem to finish her sentences.

"I'm fine too. I did fine by myself." When she doesn't say anything, I add, "I had a lot of adventures, you know?"

"Really?" I can hear a smile in her voice. It makes me want to burst into tears again. "What kind of-" A pause, and then, "what kind of adventures?"

I stare at my lap as I reply, "You won't believe me. But I got on a train. Then I jumped from one carriage to another while it was running. I met an old man with one hand, who gave me a lighter. I travelled on the roof of a bus. Then I got lost in a forest. There I found a waterfall and a pond. And then I fell from a hill into that pond. I thought I would die. But someone saved me. That someone happened to be a classmate of mine. Her name is Tiara. I became close with her family. She had a great family. They took care of me. I became friends with her grandpa. He is a really nice man, you know? H-he had this- this garden shed, which was like a library. And there were soooo m-many books- books in th-there. And then-"

I place a hand over my mouth. I didn't realize that I have already started crying, the tears spilling out in a steady stream, like heavy droplets of rain rolling down my cheeks. My head aches, but I press the receiver harder to my ear, curling into myself.

"I believe you," she says from the other hand, making me shrink further. "I believe you, Cedar. Tell me more."

I sit up straight, my eyes squeezed close. Taking a deep breath, I then say, "And then- and then I fell in love."

"Is it someone good?" she asks, her voice nearly breaking too.

I wipe my eyes. "Yes. Someone who . . . helped me realize who I am, what I want. Someone who makes me laugh, and also guides me. Someone who makes me feel very happy. Without that someone, I don't think I would have made this far."

Now she is crying too, because I can hear her sniffs. Or perhaps she has been crying all along. "Will you believe me . . . if I say that I'm happy for you, Cedar?"

I furrow my brows, biting down on my lip, as the tears keep falling. I whisper, with a kind of childish stubbornness, "No, I won't believe you, mom."

"I can't blame you. I am, after all, not someone worthy of being called a mother."

I put the reciever down from my ear, pressing it against my chest instead, as I take deep, heavy breaths. This is not the right place to cry like this. I need to compose myself for carrying out this conversation. Otherwise, drowning in my intense emotions, I won't be able to say a single word I want to say. So I wipe my face again with my arm. I cough a few times to clear my throat.

Putting the receiver back on my ear, I say the word, "Mom."

I am replied with hushed sobs.

I clutch the fabric of my jeans. "Mom, I'm in so much pain." That line seems distantly familiar, as though I've said this to her before. But I don't think I have.

"I know," she says. "I know, Cedar. And you have every right to despise me for it."

"I don't despise you. I didn't call you to tell you that I despise you."

"Your brother is leaving soon, Cedar. He is leaving forever, and I know he never plans to have any relations to us. Cedar, don't you feel the same way? Will you ever come back? I won't blame you. I have no right to. You will-"

"Listen to me!" I plead, banging my fist on my own thigh. "For once, mom, just listen to me. Just . . . hear me out, hear my feelings out. Please."

No reply comes.

So I continue, "I'm not my brother. Dale has found his happiness. As for me, I have given up on it. Rather, I want to live a life avoiding regrets."

"What . . ."

"Mom, I am coming back. In a few days, I will come back. To you and dad. And I want to try again. I want us to try again. For the last time. Because if I don't try one last time, I think I will regret it deeply later. I want to try because I know you love me, mom. And I believe you can love me without hurting me. I believe we can love each other. Mom, do you understand? Do you- do you want to try again?"

I feel my heartbeats growing louder as I wait for her response. When she finally speaks up, her words are all scattered. "Try- try again? How . . . try? I . . . I don't know how to. Cedar, it's already too late. I've- I've destroyed everything. I hated myself so much, that I destroyed everyone around me-"

She sounds like a little child who doesn't know what to do. I've destroyed everything. Isn't that exactly what July had said? Except in his case, I had no authority to forgive his wrongdoing. But in this case, I get to choose whether to forgive her, or whether to keep resenting her. I get to choose, whether I want to stay as a broken flower vase, or be pieced back together.

"We can try to fix it," I find myself saying, and instantly know I mean it. "Maybe we can't make it as new as before. But we can fix it to an extent. It's better than throwing it away. But I need you to try, mom. I need you to put that effort. Please, if this is the last thing I ever ask from you-"

"I want to."

"Huh?"

"I want to try." There is a sudden determination in her nearly-broken voice. "Cedar, I don't know if I deserve another chance, but I want to try. I will try my best. I have made so many mistakes. If I could, I would go back in time and not make them. I would love all three of you more gently. But there is nothing I can do now, other than try. I want to fix those mistakes as much as I can. I don't want to- I don't want to lose you too."

As she says this, her voice breaks again, and the tears in my eyes return. But I steel myself. If she truly means what she is saying, then I need to see how she reacts to my next statement.

"Then . . . I want to tell you, that I don't want to study Engineering, mom," I say, surprised at how forward I sound. But once I let the sentence out, the rest flows naturally. "It's not for me. I love books. I want to live by breathing books. I want to study Literature, mom. My whole life, I did everything you asked me to, without caring about what I like and what I don't. But this- for this, I want to choose myself. I don't want to regret not being able to voice my demands and wishes to you. Mom, I really . . . really want you to support me on this."

Again, a silence. I wish I could see her face. Despite everything, will she still be against it? Will she still tell me, that this will be the worst decision I will ever take? That it's impractical, that it's whimsical? If she says that, then of what point would be this whole conversation? She has changed. I can see her remorse has changed her. But how much can someone truly change? What if she-

"Whatever makes you happy, Cedar, go and do it," she says.

I sit straight. I feel my mouth hanging open, my grip on the receiver weakening. "Do- do you mean it?"

"Yes, I mean it. I wish I had someone in my life who would tell me this one sentence. Just hearing it once would have been enough. I think if I was given the opportunity to think about my own happiness, I would have been able to think about others' happiness more easily." She pauses, and I hear a deep sigh. "But there is no point of giving those excuses anymore. I've wasted my life, and I was wasting yours, but not anymore. Do whatever you want, Cedar. I'm no one to stop you. I believe that you will succeed in whatever you do, because you can work hard. And if it makes you happy, I know you will work even harder. Don't make the same mistake as your mom. Live your life however you want. Live."

My ears ring in disbelief, as a new teardrop rolls down. Is this real? Is this truly happening? Am I really hearing those words, words so overflowing with comfort? That too, from the mouth of my own mother? The same mother who . . . no, I won't think about those things anymore. She said she will try again, and she has already proven to me that she didn't say it half-heartedly. That's it.

This is everything I've ever wanted.

So I clutch the receiver with both hands and say, "I will- I will prove to you that-"

"You don't have to prove anything to me anymore, Cedar." Her voice is strained with indescribable pain. "You've already proven the most important thing — that despite the way I raised you with so much bitterness in my heart, you still ended up growing into a wonderful boy. I take no credit for it, but you did– and I'm so relieved that you did. You could have gone wrong in so many ways, and it would all be my fault, but you didn't. You and Dale both, you both turned out to be such kind people. That's the only thing- that's the only thing that makes me-"

She stops abruptly, going quiet. I don't even hear her breathing for a while.

"Mom . . ." I call, feeling more like a child than ever before.

She speaks again, this time, with more affection in her voice, just like how she used to in my distant, vague childhood memories. "Cedar, my son, just promise me one thing. Promise me you will never turn out like me. Promise me you will never hurt others because of how much you have been hurt. Promise me, that you will love those you love openly, and tell them again and again how much you love them. Just promise me that, Cedar, and I will never ask anything from you ever again."

My son. She called me "my son". Is it the first time she has ever called me that? I don't know. It doesn't matter. The tears are falling uncontrollably, I can't keep my eyes open anymore. I put a hand over my mouth to suppress the sobs. It hurts so much. Everything hurts so much. There is so much I want to say, but I can't stop crying. My heart aches terribly—it aches for myself, it aches for my brother, it aches for my mother. It aches for my father as well. My family, no matter how broken, is still my family. We have all hurt each other to no end, but we are still family. And God, I love them so much. Even amidst my hatred, my resentment, my grudges, my bitterness—even amidst them all, I could die for them without thinking a second time. And it hurts how much I love them. It hurts how much I care for them, despite their endless flaws. We can't show our love in a straightforward way, we only show it by hurting each other. Why is it like this? I don't know. All I know is that it hurts how much I want us all to be happy, to be together. It hurts that it is already too late. Nothing has ever hurt this much.

I blink my tears out. When my vision clears up a little, I notice a tissue box sitting on the counter, right beside me. The old man at the reception isn't here anymore. He has left me to myself, but he made sure to give me tissue. People are so kind. People are so cruel. We humans . . .

I take some tissue papers out and clean my face. I hear sobs from the other end of the receiver too, which makes my own tears return again and again. I cough a few times to clear my throat.

Taking a deep breath, I finally say, "I promise you, mom."

Her sobs grow louder, but I can tell she is trying her best to keep them under control. When she does, she says, in a voice perhaps only a mother can have, "Thank you, Cedar. Thank you so much."

I wipe more of my face, clutching the damp piece of tissue harder. "But you have to promise me something too, mom."

Sounds of sniffing come from the other end. "Tell me."

I put a hand on my chest. My heart has been torn into pieces; it's now a mere lump of flesh. But I can feel that it has started to stitch itself back together again, slowly but certainly, with the thread of hope, or perhaps relief, or perhaps forgiveness, or perhaps all the above. I am right now, stronger than ever, and at the same time, weaker than ever.

Family is complicated, but it's still family.

"Promise me," I say, releasing a massive burden through a single exhale, "that as soon as I come back, we will start therapy—both of us."
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15-08-2022

This chapter hit too close to home, and it was really hard for me to put it all down on paper, because the emotions are so intense. However, I feel like the me from 2020, and even 2021, wouldn't be able to write this chapter in the way it's supposed to be written. So perhaps me writing this book in the speed of a sloth was all destiny.

This chapter was more or less the most important chapter of this book. The climax, if you will, though I don't divide my story arcs in that way. But the next few chapters are mostly fillerish, focusing on Cedar and July's relationship.

Thank you so much for reading :). Take care of yourselves.

— Poma