From The Shadows #2
Momma doesn’t comment, just adds more to my plate whenever some space opens up, watching with quiet satisfaction as more and more people arrive, drawn by the radio call or the smell or the rumor of her presence.
She oversees it all from her spot beside me, making sure latecomers get a plate, yelling out when someone’s portion is too small.
No plate for herself, I notice. Just a mug of coffee that someone handed her with a familiarity that I sort of envy. Like I want to be the one who knows how she takes her coffee, who makes sure she gets one.
I want to be the one washing dishes in her kitchen after dinner. I want to be the one nagging her about her ankle, urging her to use her cane, and the one who shares eye rolls with her son because we both know she never will.
I want to be the one. Why can’t I be the one?
“How is it, dear? You want more orange sponge?” Momma asks, already cutting a slice and placing it on my plate before I can answer.
I pat my stomach. “I’m stuffed. Don’t think it’d fit even if I tried.”
She chuckles, warm and rich. Like Eli. “Good. I’ll wrap you some slices for the afternoon, then.”
“I really shouldn’t,” I protest not too vigorously. “I’m a month and a half from a big event. Gotta keep my weight down.” An actual chuckle rolls out of me, meek as it sounds. “And I’m just too soft against your cake.”
Momma nods, humming like she’s actually considering my objection. But her hands keep moving, cutting three thick slices onto a napkin.
“Ain’t nothing soft ‘bout choosing what fills you up instead of what empties you out,” she says, folding the napkin with the precision of a thousand packed lunches. “That’s just smart. ”
She reaches for my jacket and slips the cake into a pocket, for sure knowing I’d most likely forget it on purpose. “I know the world don’t usually clap for that kinda smart, though. Not until it’s too late, at least.”
Our eyes meet, then, and her hand is over mine where it rests on the table. “Don’t mean it ain’t smart, dear. Just that the world is pretty dumb.”
She squeezes. Without thinking, I squeeze back.
Then my eyes snap up, pulled by some sixth sense I’ve developed to his presence since the day we met. Eli stands at the courtyard entrance, confusion and concern written across his features as he takes in the scene—his mother, the food, the gathering. Me.
Momma follows my gaze. “Oop, that’s my cue,” she says as she spots her son, patting my hand once more before starting to rise.
I’m on my feet instantly, steadying her, and forcing the cane into her hand before she, too, pretends to forget. Eli sees us and comes rushing over, his face contorted with a worry that tells me these breakfast picnics aren’t exactly a tradition in Riverlight.
“Momma, what happened? Everything okay?” he asks, holding her arms, eyes darting between her face and her ankle, with a quick glance my way that doesn’t truly hold.
Momma reaches up, brushing his cheek with her thumb in a gesture so tender it makes my throat tight. “Someone’s gotta feed my boys,” she says simply. “Since they obviously ain’t feeding themselves.”
My boys. Me too.
This whole event, the picnic baskets. Everything.
His eyes drill into Momma’s, and an entire conversation passes between them without any words. Just Momma’s microscopic head shake that turns into a nod, Eli’s near-invisible jaw clench that then releases. Whatever they’re saying, she’s right. I know it, and he does too.
After a moment, Momma brings him down and kisses his nose, so softly, then turns away, calling a goodbye to the crowd. They respond in a chorus of thanks and well-wishes, all different voices with the same genuine affection.
“I’ll walk you to the buggy,” Eli says, taking her elbow.
“You stay and eat,” she counters, patting his hand before slipping it off her.
“My horrible old woman cane and I will do the walking, thank you very much.” Her grin is impish, teasing, and Eli shakes his head with the fond exasperation of a man who knows this battle is already and always inevitably lost.
He leans down, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Love you, Momma.”
“Love you too, sweet boy,” she replies, and then she’s off, limping toward her buggy while spinning the cane beside her like a dapper gentleman about to sing in the rain.
When she should be using it. Placing her weight on it.
Eli looks at me. I look back. And we shake our heads and roll our eyes, and then we’re chuckling because she’s just irreparable and that ankle will never, ever heal.
But it’s okay. Somehow, as far as ankle injuries could be. It feels okay.
My next breath feels okay. The next one too.
Eli keeps smiling softly, standing where she left him with his hands on his hips as his eyes track her progress, watchful and alert despite the distance he’s giving her.
He doesn’t hover, doesn’t try to force her into accepting help, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the remnants of a worry that’ll always stay because that’s his mother and he’s a good son.
And as a good son, he’ll stand out of her way, simply ready to move if she needs him. He’ll let her drive off on that bad ankle, let her be independent and stubborn and entirely herself, but he’ll watch every second until she’s safely out of sight. Because that’s how a good son loves.
That’s how Eli loves. Out of sight, from the shadows.
By leaving notes on water glasses. By sending dinner reminders via text.
By getting angry at lifelong injustices and proud at moments of liberation.
By drawing hearts on wrists as one sleeps.
As I sleep.
That’s how he’s loved me, too. Right from the start.
Never demanding, never holding me back. Just there, in the shadows—in my shadow, the one that’s always with me. With a love that saw everything, not just the parts I chose to show.
And how did I love him back? By blaming him for not caring just because he wouldn’t share his thoughts on my career. By letting Mom thumb his heart clean with spit, not even fighting it.
By forgetting what life was like before him.
People spend their entire lives desperately searching for what I found with him.
Most never find it at all. And standing here right now, watching him watch his mother drive off, I suddenly can’t remember why.
Why I forgot, what was so scary about a photo, about the real me going viral.
Losing a shot at Olympic gold? Losing sponsors, losing money?
For what? A brand that would rather prey on kids? That’s just dumb. Oh my God, that’s so damn dumb.
My whole life. My face, my name. Supposedly my brand, and this is how they see me?
No, they’re just not looking. Which means they don’t care.
Which means I have a call to make.