Eggshells

Headlights flash into my living room as a car pulls into the driveway. I lift the window's curtains and my mother steps out of the car. I make out her silhouette against the streetlights as she shuts the door and rests her forehead on the glass. When she walks towards the house, I let the curtain fall and open the front door.

'Hello, Maya,' she says.

'Hi, Mom. Thanks for coming.'

'It was no trouble.' She shifts her weight and glances at my face before looking past me. 'Beautiful home.'

'Thanks. I'll show you to your room.' I lean down to grab one of her bags. The world blurs and tilts, and my vision dims. I take a deep breath and wrap my fingers around the bag's handle. I am fine. 'Follow me,' I say, dragging the suitcase behind me. She hesitates. Had she noticed? Did I want her to? Without a word, she follows me inside.

I point out different rooms on our way to the guest bedroom. I spent the day cleaning and making sure everything was perfect. She nods at everything I say. 'Let me know if you need anything.'

'Everything looks great,' she says. She clasps her hands. 'Is there anything I can help you with?' I bristle. I would have welcomed the words if she'd said them years ago. Before I respond, I take a beat. Calm down. She's here to try.

'I'll let you know if I need anything.'

We stand in silence.

Her lips part. I wait. My heart beats faster. Is she entering the ring first? Ending the dance? Instead, she nods and sits on the bed. 'See you in the morning.' I close the door and leave the room.

*

While the rest of the house is spotless, my bedroom is not. Dirty laundry is piled in a corner. My laptop is running on the desk. If I open it, I'll find a browser window with a multitude of tabs that I could never manage to reduce. The desk is littered with empty instant noodle cups and delivery containers.

I skirt around the mess and go to the bathroom to take my medicine. Then I lie in bed and wait for elusive sleep to come. As always, my mind waits for this moment to pounce. When the defences of daily activities and distractions fall away.

The charging light of my laptop illuminates the ceiling. How could such a small light be so bright? I roll to my left and my vision is obscured by the clump of clean clothes that I never got around to folding. It's nice to have them in the bed with me. I'm still not used to having so much space to myself.

I don't want to think about him. I don't want to miss him. I yank my quilt up to cover my head. Tomorrow. What do I need to do tomorrow? I'll wake up at around seven and cook breakfast. I wonder what Mom likes to eat? I have no idea.

She looked so uncertain earlier. Has she always been so small? She hasn't changed much though. It's still up to me to take the lead. I shake my head. It doesn't matter. I could handle it tomorrow.

*

Noises are coming from the kitchen when I wake up. It feels like a dream. Until I realise it isn't. I snap my eyes open and roll out of bed. The room is spinning again. I close my eyes and take deep breaths. The sensation subsides.

I go to the bathroom and take my medication. Once I've showered and dressed, I feel more relaxed. I head downstairs, determined to not let my emotions get the better of me.

When I enter the kitchen, Mom's at the stove cooking bacon. She looks up and gives me a small smile. 'Good morning, Maya.'

'Morning.' I smile back. The corners of my mouth twitch until I let it drop. I grab another pan and set it down on another burner. The kitchen is silent except for the sound of bacon frying in the pan. We are next to each other, but it feels like there's a balloon between us. Too little effort bounces off. Too much and it may burst.

As my pan heats up, I grab the last two eggs from the fridge. I drop the now empty carton into the bin and walk back to the stove. Too late, I notice Mom turning around with her plate of bacon. We collide and the eggs fall. They shatter and yolk spreads across the white tiles.

Mom's eyes widen and she takes in a sharp breath. 'I'm sorry. Let me help-'

I hold my hand up and shake my head. 'It's fine.' I grab a handful of paper towels and scoop up the mess. I spray the cleaning solution on the spot and scrub until the floor is spotless and the air smells like vanilla.

'Maya, I can help. Let me make you some eggs. You like them scrambled, right?'

I clench my fists. My face feels hot. Calm down. Calm down. I can feel my nails digging into my palm.

'Don't bother. Those were the last ones.'

Her hands hang loosely at her sides.

'You can't turn back time.' More words for me to hurt her with.

I can feel tears building behind my eyes. Why do I always do this? Can't I keep the emotions down?

I turn my back to her and walk out of the kitchen. Once I'm out of sight, I bound up the stairs two at a time. My breath catches in my chest, protesting the exertion. I don't care. I need to be alone.

When I'm safely in my bedroom, hidden under the quilt with the door closed, the tears come. Sobs rip out of my throat. I hurt. It hurts inside. Everywhere.

Why does she still get to me? Why do I still expect things from her? From anyone? I am independent. I don't need anyone.

But, I feel like a child again. Powerless against my emotions, hiding alone with my pain and unable to give it words. It tumbles around inside me.

I glance at the other half of the bed. I want the pain to all come out. I deserve to feel it. He left me. After I got sick. I told all my friends it was fine. I didn't need him. They'd nodded and commended me for taking the high road. But that had been my fault, too. It was all my fault. I never trusted him. Never let him in. Never let him know me. I wrap my arms around myself and sob.

There's a knock on the door. I freeze.

'Maya?'

It's hard to breathe. This is no good. I force myself to calm down. To push everything down. I wipe my face and blow my nose. Quietly. 'Come in.' I sit up in bed.

Mom opens the door. She glances at the tissues on the floor that escaped my quilted armour. Her eyes land on the piles of clothes and food containers. The hoarder-worthy other half of the bed. She takes in my face which feels warm and swollen. She doesn't enter the room. Is she getting ready to say goodbye?

Mom clasps and unclasps her hands. Then she walks in and sits at the foot of the bed.

'I know growing up, I wasn't the best mother to you. Or any kind of mother.' She pauses. 'If I'm being honest, I don't remember much at all of those years.' She looks into my eyes. I almost look away, but I don't. I want to see her. 'The fact that you've grown up to be so kind and intelligent is a testament to your strength and perseverance. I may not have the right to be, but I am very proud of the independent young woman you have become.'

My chest tightens.

'You may be independent, but there's nothing wrong with asking for help. That's something I've learned. And it's something I hope we can continue to learn together. I'll be right here with you.' She reaches out and pats my hand. 'I'll be downstairs.' She leaves.

I feel untethered. On a new shore without a map or compass. I want to be happy, but I'm too used to not giving her the satisfaction. Of not letting her impact me.

Do I want her in my life? What will that look like? I don't understand how to be with her. However it turns out, it will be different from how we are now. It could even be better.

I square my shoulders and push my feet into the solid ground. The air feels lighter, and my chest flutters like it always does when something new is on the horizon.

I slowly get out of bed and kneel to pick up the tissues. I place the tissues and empty food containers into some rubbish bags. Into another bag goes the shampoo, toothbrush and razor blades left untouched for months. I carry the bags downstairs.

Mom is sitting on the couch. She stands up, a question in her eyes.

'Here, Mom,' I say, holding out some of the bags. 'Can you help me carry these?'