21. Julia #2
Mom lets out a frustrated breath. “She can’t do anything anymore, Julia.
I asked her to put a few things away, and she just sits there while I end up doing everything myself.
The kitchen was a mess, things were left on the counter, and half the time I can barely understand her when her voice gets like that. ”
For a second, I genuinely don’t know which part to answer first. “She’s ninety-four.”
“I know how old she is.”
“Then why are you talking about her like she’s being lazy?”
“I didn’t say she was lazy.”
“You said she can’t do anything anymore because she didn’t clean the kitchen the way you wanted.”
Her voice lifts. “You weren’t there.”
“No, I wasn’t, but I know she is ninety-four and I know she shouldn’t have to prove she can still scrub a counter properly before she is allowed to sit down without getting yelled at.”
“I didn’t yell.”
“She said you raised your voice.”
Mom gives a short, humorless laugh. “Of course she did.”
The defensiveness arrives so quickly that my own temper begins climbing with it. “She wasn’t calling to complain about you. I asked because I could tell she was upset.”
“So now I’m the bad guy.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You never have to, Julia. You always take everyone else’s side.”
There it is. We somehow skipped from Nanna’s kitchen to my loyalty in less than five minutes.
I put the mug down before I grip it hard enough to spill something. “This isn’t about sides. If you need help, ask for help. If you’re overwhelmed, tell me you’re overwhelmed. But being overwhelmed doesn’t make it okay to take it out on her.”
“I don’t take anything out on her.”
I close my eyes and press two fingers against my forehead. There is no useful response because both of us know she does, and arguing about the definition will only create three new arguments.
The silence stretches for a moment before her voice changes again, the irritation giving way to something almost casual. “So when are you coming over?”
My stomach drops because I know where this is going before I answer.
“I’m not sure. Maybe next weekend.”
“Maybe.” The word comes flat and unimpressed.
“I have things I need to get done this weekend.”
“Of course.”
I stare through the kitchen window toward the backyard.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“It never means nothing when you say it like that.”
Another sigh comes through the phone, this one heavy enough that I can picture her rolling her eyes. “You always manage to have time for everybody else.”
The sentence lands exactly where it always does. I say nothing.
She keeps going. “You can have Tessa over. You can make plans with friends. You apparently have time to sit around drinking coffee with neighbors, but when it comes to family, suddenly you’re busy.”
I am thirty-four years old, standing inside a house I own with a coffee mug I bought myself and a mortgage payment that arrives reliably every month. None of it matters because for a moment, I feel twelve.
“I saw Tessa last weekend.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point, then?”
“The point is that family always gets whatever is left.”
The guilt begins settling in my stomach before I can stop it. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s true.” Her voice softens slightly, which somehow makes the next sentence hurt more. “You’re like your father that way. Everybody else comes first and the people who actually love you get whatever time you have left.”
I stop breathing. She knows what that comparison does. Maybe she doesn’t consciously select it because she knows exactly where to strike, but she has used it often enough that pretending she doesn’t understand would be generous.
My hand tightens against the edge of the counter. “Don’t do that.”
Her tone turns defensive again. “Do what?”
“Compare me to him every time I don’t do what you want.”
“I’m not comparing you to him. I said you have the same tendency.”
“That is literally a comparison.”
“You always twist what I say.”
A humorless laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “Okay.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
I straighten and stare at the tiled backsplash because looking at anything else suddenly feels too difficult.
“It means I’m not doing this.”
Her voice becomes sharper. “Of course. You don’t want to hear anything you don’t like.”
“No, I don’t want to spend Saturday morning being told I’m a bad daughter because I said I might come over next weekend instead of today.”
“I never said you were a bad daughter.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Silence settles between us again and I muster enough strength to end the conversation. “I’m going to go,”
“Fine.” The coldness in her voice makes my chest hurt.
“Mom.”
“What?”
I close my eyes for a second before forcing myself to continue. “I love you, but I’m not coming over because you made me feel guilty enough to rearrange my weekend.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“No.” My voice is quieter now, but steadier. “You just made sure I knew what kind of person you think I am if I don’t.”
There is no answer.
“I’ll talk to you later.” The call ends.
For a long moment, I remain against the counter with the phone still pressed loosely in my hand.
The confidence I had while talking to her disappears almost as soon as the call does.
I feel like shit. Every instinct I have tells me to call back and fix it, although I don’t even know what fixing it would mean beyond offering tomorrow as proof that I love her enough.
I don’t call. Instead, I pick up my coffee and carry it into the living room, where I sit long enough for it to go cold while the guilt slowly changes from something sharp into something I can at least breathe around.
The rest of Saturday continues whether I want it to or not.
Laundry needs folding. Groceries need ordering.
Tessa sends me a video of a dog wearing sunglasses in a convertible with the caption this is you when you finally lose your mind and leave Minnesota, and I laugh hard enough that she immediately follows with three more.
By late afternoon, I have stopped thinking about driving to Mom’s just to make the feeling disappear. I suppose that counts as progress. I only wish progress didn’t feel so much like doing the wrong thing on purpose.
The black envelope appears Sunday evening. I notice it after carrying a bowl into the kitchen and wandering back toward the living room, stopping to open the front door and check if it’s there. Because doing that suddenly feels as normal as anything else.
My pulse responds before the rest of me does. The heaviness left over from Saturday loosens slightly as curiosity moves into its place. I picked it up from where it was resting against the bottom of the door beneath the porch light.
Little Ember,
You have no idea what you looked like Friday night.
I watched you walk to that window still fighting yourself. I watched you stop, give yourself the chance to walk away, and stay anyway.
You looked for me. That was the part that almost wrecked me.
Not your hand down your shorts. Not the way your mouth opened when you stopped trying to stay quiet.
Not even the way you came with your forehead on the glass because I told you to keep your eyes on the trees.
You looked for me because you wanted my eyes on you while you fucked yourself.
I was there. I saw every second of it. If I had been inside your house, I would not have let you do it alone.
I would have come up behind you at that window, put your hands on the glass, and shoved those shorts aside myself.
I would have slid two fingers into that wet little cunt and made you feel exactly how ready you already were for me.
Then I would have wrapped my hand around yours and forced you to rub your clit the way I wanted it.
Slow at first. Then harder. I would have told you when to stop.
When to start again. When you were allowed to come.
If you closed your eyes, I would have put my mouth to your ear and told you to open them.
If your knees gave out, I would have held you up by the throat and the hip and made you watch yourself take it.
I would have kept you standing there until you came on your own fingers with my voice in your ear and my cock hard against your ass, knowing I could have bent you over that windowsill and fucked you through it.
That is what I wanted while I watched you.
And that is only the beginning of what I would do to you if I were on the other side of that glass.
I want you thinking about it. I want you restless with it.
I want you so fucking crazy with the image of my hands on you that one night you stop standing at the window and open the door.
You look more beautiful in the clothes you wear at home than you know.
The sweater. The shorts. The way you stand at the stove or wipe down a counter that is already clean or sit on that couch with your phone like the rest of the world can wait.
You do not have to put on a show for me to want you.
I already do when you think you are only living in your own house.
I saw you after that call. You stood in the kitchen too long. Still. Like whatever she said had landed and you did not know where to put it.
If I had been inside, I would have come up behind you and held you until it let go. I would have listened if that was what you needed. Or I would have put my mouth on your throat and my hands on your body and made you forget the conversation ever happened.
You decide which.
You decide when I am welcome.
—Man in the Shadows