Thirty （B） – Eliza
THIRTY (B)
ELIZA
I ignore the strange wetness sliding down my cheeks, telling myself it’s just the mist from the tree leaves above me.
But I know better.
No matter how many years pass, this day never hurts any less. I always swear it’ll be different—that I’ll handle it better, feel less—but it always ends the same.
The cold sweat when I wake up. The memories waiting for me like landmines in every direction. The way my heart feels like it’s collapsing in on itself.
There’s no escaping it.
Not on Mother’s Day.
I have to find a quiet place where no one’s celebrating, where no one’s smiling or posting pastel-filtered photos with hashtags.
Sometimes I hide out for days, skipping stores until I know the shelves have moved on to pushing Father’s Day and Fourth of July sales.
Leaning back on the park bench, I shut my eyes and hope the memories will finally give me an hour of peace. Just one.
But the ache doesn’t fade.
Instead, I feel fingers threading gently through my hair.
My eyes flutter open.
Harrison is sitting next to me, his expression unreadable but his presence grounding.
“I was just about to call you,” I say, though my voice cracks. “I’m totally fine. I was just enjoying the view, see?”
He doesn’t say anything. Just wraps his arms around my shoulders, and I sink into his chest. The tears fall faster, heavier now that I’m not pretending.
He exhales slowly, then pulls me into his lap.
“Yesterday was my younger brother’s birthday,” he says quietly. “He was so smart, he skipped grades. Went to college a year before I did. He’s still the smartest person I’ve ever known.”
“You still talk to him?” I ask, my voice small.
“Not unless I go to the cemetery…” He meets my eyes. “He killed himself.”
My breath catches. “I’m so sorry…”
“It’s my fault he jumped,” he says flatly. “He begged me to come see him—he said he was breaking down—and I didn’t rush home like I should have.”
“You can’t really believe that…”
“I could’ve gotten him help,” he says. “I saw the signs. We all did. And none of us did anything.”
He rubs slow circles on my back.
“No one in my family talks about it,” he murmurs. “It’s like this incident we keep getting farther away from every year—like time alone will fix it. It won’t. And that’s a big part of why I can’t stand being around them.”
“Your mom never brings him up?” I ask.
“She was never the same after she had me. She had depression for five years and just…” He trails off. “I don’t know.”
He hesitates, staring out at nothing.
“I watch old family-style sitcoms just to see what it looks like when people don’t hate their families.” He admits. “Pathetic, isn’t it?”
“No.” I shake my head and squeeze his hand. “I watch shows like that every night, too…”