I wake up to something heavy being dropped. I jump out of bed and run into my Mom's room. She's pulling boxes out of her closet.
"What are you doing?" I ask. She whips around and looks at me.
"I'm just going through some stuff." Every time my Mom is on the edge of a break down, she "goes through stuff." I've never understood it.
I sit down on her bed and grab the box sitting next to me. I start to riffle through it. My Mom turns around and looks at me. She grabs the box away from me.
"Don't go through that." She says.
"Why?" I ask. "What's in it?"
"Just stuff." She says. "My stuff."
"Okay." Now I'm curious. What's in there that she doesn't want me to see? She puts the box down and walks over to a different one. She pulls out old photo albums, my and Dylan's baby books and some other random things for when we were little.
I stand up and slowly walk over to the box I can't go through. Before I can grab it my Mom stops me. How does she always know what I'm doing?
"Leave the box alone."
"How did you know that's what I was doing?" I ask.
"Because I'm your Mother." She says. "I know everything." That whole thing about Mom's having eyes in the back of their head isn't bullshit.
"Come on what's in it?" She picks up the box and turns away from me.
"It's just stuff." She walks past me and trips. She throws the box and papers and notebooks fly everywhere. I kneel down and start to help pick them up. I grab one notebook and open it up. I start to read the writing. I look up at my Mom.
"Mom, who wrote this?" I ask.
"I did. Give it to me." She says while sticking out her hand. She wrote this? I always knew that my Mom used to write. I mean she always wanted to be an author but I didn't realize how good she was. I continue to read a little more. "Teddie, Give it to me." She demands.
"You're really good."
"Yeah, okay." She says sarcastically. "Now give it to me." I hand her the notebook and she shoves back into the box along with others things she picked up. She puts the box down and I sit back down on her bed.
"Why did you stop writing?" I ask.
"Because I didn't have time for it." She says. "I was busy."
"Busy doing what?" I ask.
"Being your mother." We both pause and my Mom continues to "go through stuff."
"Why don't you write now?" She looks over to me.
"Look, Teddie, I wrote that in high school. Okay? It was long time ago and obviously the universe had other plans for me." She says. "I was never meant to be an author."
"So, you're saying that you were meant be a single mother?" She sighs loudly.
"I guess." She says.
"I don't understand why you're giving up on something you wanted so badly." She stands in front of me and looks at me.
"I had to choose between you and what I wanted to do and I chose you." She explains. "I'm blaming you or trying to make you feel bad I'm just trying to explain to you that we don't always get to follow through with the plans we made for ourselves."
"But you have a natural talent." I argue. "Didn't you always tell me not to let my talents go to waste?"
"It's really not that good okay?" She says. "I'm not talented."
"I just think you should get back into it."
"Don't you have something to do or somewhere to go?" She asks frustrated. She really doesn't want to talk about this anymore. I know it's not because she doesn't think she's good enough, it's because she upset that she never got the chance to live out her dream. She never got to see what it might be like.
"Okay then." I say as I stand up. I walk toward the door. "Have fun going through stuff."