31. Epilogue
Epilogue
Thank You Aimee by Taylor Swift
Two Months Later
The doorbell rings. “I’ll get it,” I say as I get up from the couch. “Pause the movie, babe.”
Part of Charlie’s acclimation to the modern world has included us working our way through the American Film Institute’s list of the top 100 movies of all time. For obvious reasons, we will skip Titanic . This week’s selection is The Godfather .
“We go to the mattresses,” I mumble, quoting the movie in a terrible attempt at a Sicilian accent as I head toward the front door.
I grab the doorknob and quickly open it. A woman stands across from me with a canvas tote bag over her shoulder. Her eyes widen as our gaze meets. She nervously brushes a brown curl behind her ear. I inhale sharply, and she notices my startled expression.
“Hi. I’m sorry to intrude.” She takes a deep breath. “My name is—”
“Mom?” She steps back, as if surprised I recognized her.
“Alice.”
“Wh-what are you doing here?”
She looks terrified. “I came to apologize. You can shut the door in my face. I understand if you do. But I’d like to explain myself, if you’ll let me.”
I wasn’t expecting this tonight, or ever. She’s right though. I can just shut the door in her face. This is my house. My life. I can move on as if this never happened. I’ve already put this chapter behind me. I’ve put her behind me. I don’t need explanations for why she left. I don’t need apologies. I’ve grown, and I’ve found peace.
I want to shut the door, and my hand is almost ready to push it, until something in my heart reminds me that while I have found peace, maybe she hasn’t. Despite all the anger and resentment I carried against her for years, I just feel pity for her right now.
“Come on in.”
Her eyes brighten when I invite her inside, as if she wasn’t expecting to make it past the metaphorical front gate. Truthfully, I’m surprised at myself.
She steps into the foyer and looks up at the crystal chandelier. I watch as her eyes sweep over the entryway and into the front den. That’s where you put me when you left me. Do you remember? She inhales slowly, as if nervous about proceeding. I notice her hands are shaking, like stepping back into this house is difficult for her. Good. I hope you’re uncomfortable. I take a deep breath and her perfume hits me. She still smells like lilies. The reminder makes me feel four years old again.
“Can we talk? I thought this might help.” She reaches into her tote bag and pulls out a bottle of red wine. Despite not seeing each other in over twenty years, at least that she's aware of, we somehow have the same taste in wine.
“Yeah,” I say curtly. I’m still unsure what this is about and I’m doing my best to keep a tough exterior. “Kitchen is this way.” I motion toward the hall that leads to the kitchen and living room.
“I remember.” Right. This was your house once too. Thanks for the reminder. The temperature between us is freezing. I don’t want to punish her with harsh words, despite the urge to get a few deserved barbs in. I swallow the sarcastic comment I feel coming up my throat.
She follows behind me silently to the kitchen. Neither of us knows what to say to break the ice.
As we approach the kitchen, Charlie is standing at the counter making himself a cup of tea.
“Who was at the door?” He asks without looking up. I clear my throat to get his attention. He looks up and seems surprised that someone is behind me. “Oh, I’m sorry.” He pulls the tea bag from the cup and tosses it into the garbage. “I didn’t realize we had company.”
“This is my mother, Katherine.” Charlie’s eyes widen as he tries to keep his jaw from hitting the floor. His eyes immediately search mine, as if he instinctively wants to know I’m okay. “Mom, this is my husband, Charlie.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Charlie.” She smiles as she extends her hand out to him.
“It’s nice to meet you as well.” He looks at me with a confused expression.
She sets the wine down on the counter. I pat Charlie’s arm gently. “Could you reach some glasses down for us?”
He pulls the glasses down from the top shelf of the cupboard as I rummage for the corkscrew. He leans over close to my ear and whispers, “Do you want me to stay with you, love?”
“No, I’ll be okay. I need to do this,” I whisper back. I love him for wanting to support and protect me, but this is something I need to do alone. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mom running her hand down the doorframe of the kitchen, her fingers tracing the notches of my growth over my childhood, as if measuring every year she lost with me.
“Alright. I’m headed downstairs to the workshop,” he says in a louder voice. “It was lovely to meet you, Katherine.”
She smiles warmly at him. “You as well.”
He slips his hand around my waist. “You sure you’re okay, love?” I smile and nod. He presses his lips gently to my forehead. “I love you,” he whispers.
He heads downstairs, and I direct my attention to opening the bottle of wine. “He seems lovely,” she says as she sits down in the living room.
“He is,” I answer quietly, without looking up.
“How did you meet?”
We don’t have enough wine to get into that. “It’s a long, complicated story.” I set both glasses of wine down on the coffee table and settle into an armchair across from her.
The silence between us is thick and suffocating. Subconsciously, I run my hand through my hair. When my gaze flicks upward, it’s like looking in a mirror, because she is doing it too.
She looks over at the mantle, observing the photos of my life. Alongside my childhood photos of Dad and me, are photos of the family I’ve created for myself. From Ben, Peter, Charlie, and I at a Bruins game to Charlie’s first Thanksgiving. In the center of the mantle are photos from mine and Charlie’s wedding at the beach house in Cape Cod, including one of Ben walking me down the aisle.
“I can’t believe you’re all grown up. You’re married. I’ve missed it all.”
“Yeah, that happens when you leave.” No. I’m not gonna let you walk in here and put on a goddamn Mother Teresa martyr act. You missed this because you left. You.
“I know, Alice. It’s my fault. I know that. I wasn’t ready.” She shakes her head and leans forward before I can respond. “I know that’s no excuse. You deserve an explanation.”
“I don’t need one.”
“You still deserve one. I failed you. I wasn’t ready to be a mother. I didn’t want to be a mother. That doesn’t mean I didn’t love you. I need you to know that.”
“I do know that.”
Her eyebrows lift with surprise. “You do?”
“I understand why you left. I didn’t always, but I do now. I was angry for years, and that anger hardened me. But eventually, I chipped away at it, and I grew. I found love. I found peace. And I moved forward.” I take a deep breath. “You don’t need my forgiveness. I’ve already forgiven you.”
She appears at a loss for words. “You have?”
“It took me a long time to figure it out, but I eventually realized that you left because you did love me. You knew you couldn’t be what I needed, so you took yourself out of the equation. Was it brave? Was it cowardly? Was it the right thing to do? I don’t know. I can’t answer that. But it seems like we both turned out okay.”
“I want you to know I loved your father very much. I just couldn’t be what he needed me to be.”
“I know.” I look over at a photo of Dad and me on the mantle.
Her eyes follow mine to the photo. “Did he ever talk about me?”
“After the day you left?” She nods her head. “No.” She gulps as she takes that in, as if it was a hard pill to swallow. “He could never find the words. It was too hard for him. He was heartbroken.”
Her face looks ashamed, as if pleading guilty to every charge leveled against her. “I hated myself for hurting both of you.”
“I hated you for it too.”
“I deserve that.” Her eyes curve as she looks at me sadly, as if I’m bruised and battered from a lifetime of being tossed aside.
“But Dad… he gave me a great life, okay? Maybe we didn’t talk about things we should have, but man, we had fun together. He tried. He did the best he could with what he had. We both did. So don’t look at me like I’m a little bird with a broken wing, alright?”
“I’m sorry.” She nods, acknowledging my defense.
“Why are you here now?”
She takes a sip of her wine and looks down. “A few weeks ago, I found a lump in my breast.” My eyes soften as concern settles into my face. I surprise myself with how quickly the worry comes. She looks up and seems just as surprised. “Oh, it’s nothing. It turned out to be a false alarm. But in that period of not knowing if I was dying, not knowing if I was running out of time, I evaluated my life and the decisions I’d made. When you think your life might be ending, that’s when you realize the mistakes you made at the beginning.” She takes a deep breath. “It took me years to do, but I confronted my feelings about leaving you. I didn’t want to be a mother, and I still believe that leaving put you in a better position than if I had stayed. But, I still regret it. I regret hurting you. I regret hurting him. I wish it could have been different. I wish I had been different.”
I realize if she had shown up on my doorstep a year ago, this conversation would be far more hostile. I would not be nearly as calm or collected. A year ago, I thought I would unleash years of pent up rage on her if I ever saw her again. But now, after everything I’ve been through, everything I’ve learned, all I want is for her to let the pain go as I have.
“You can’t live life constantly thinking like that. You don’t need my forgiveness. You need to forgive yourself. That’s the only way you can let the pain go.”
“When did you get so wise?” She laughs through a sniffle. “Last time I saw you, you needed help to tie your shoes.”
“That wasn’t the last time you saw me.”
“What?”
“There was an art showing. Not long after Dad died.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh, my god. I… I remember. That was you?”
“I wanted to confront you. I was going to demand an explanation. I came in with guns blazing. I wanted you to hurt, like you hurt me. But then, the moment I saw you, I froze. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I saw you, and I felt like a child again, unloved and unwanted.”
Mom leans over and pulls out a small black wallet from her tote bag. She lifts the gold clasp and pulls out a folded and worn piece of newspaper. She hands it to me. “Here.”
Riverview Academy senior Alice Murphy with two goals in state championship win
“You kept this?”
“I’ve always loved you, Alice.” She takes a deep breath. “I know you don’t need a mother. Look at you. You’re incredible. And I know I do not deserve the title of mother. But, I’d like to know you. Maybe as adults, we can carve out a small space and make it our own?”
I pause for a moment. “I… I’d like that.”
“You would?”
“I would.”
A grin extends across her face. I don’t know what kind of relationship we will have. The battlefield between us has been fought on for years. But maybe, together, we can pick up the debris and make it something new. Not a typical mother daughter relationship, but something that works for us.
We sit and chat while we finish our wine. She tells me about her life and her art. I tell her about my job and my life with Charlie. It’s a start.
I walk her back toward the front door. She looks around the house once more. “It looks the same. And different.”
“Dad did a lot of work on it.”
Her eyes become misty. “He did a great job. With the house… and with you.”
“Thank you.” I look around at all the renovations he made. It makes it feel like he’s here. I hope he can hear her. I hope he has found the peace that I have.
She turns around on the front stoop. “Alice? Thank you for not shutting the door.”
I smile back. “It’s open anytime.”