Better Off

28

"I'm fine," I say for the thousandth time since I got home, wishing I meant the words.

Because if I'm being honest, I'm not fine. How could I be, after everything that's happened lately? I was basically kidnapped by a psycho ex-gang leader, put into the most precarious position of my life. And then I had to watch the boy I love be taken away from me in handcuffs, unable to do anything to help him.

I glance up at my mother and father, seeing the worry and fear on their faces clearly as they both look down at me, as if unsure of what to do. I know that they've been worrying about me, and I know that worry only increased when I was brought home in a police car after being gone for hours. The police officer who dropped me off didn't really explain in depth what happened to me today, leaving the explaining for me to do.

Needless to say, I've only worried my parents further.

"Mia," Mom starts, edging closer to me. I sit on the couch in the living room, while my parents choose to remain standing—just staring at me. "If you're not—"

"I'm fine!" I blurt, cutting my mother off mid-sentence. I look into her eyes with a pointed expression on my face, shaking my head. "I'm fine, Mom. I'm fine." I choke on the words a little, my voice hoarse from all the screaming and crying I've been doing today. My eyes sting when I close them, bringing new tears to the surface. My hands shake in my lap.

I'm not fine. But I'm lying for my parents benefit. I'm doing this for them.

When I risk another glance up at my parents, I find that Mom and Dad are sharing a knowing look. They look so scared . . . so broken. On my behalf. I can't remember the last time my parents seemed to care about me this much. I mean, I know they care. They've always been uptight and overprotective. But they're hardly ever around. I mean, it's always business trip after business trip. Hell, I was able to keep the fact that I had a boyfriend a secret from them for months!

Maybe I'm not lying for their benefit. Maybe I've just gotten used to not being close with my parents; maybe I've just gotten used to not letting them in. Old habits die hard.

"Mia." Mom's voice breaks as she says the words. Her eyes look shattered, like the fact that I'm lying to her is worse than what she knows I just went through. For a moment, I just expect my parents to accept my answer and move on—that's what normally happens, anyway. We've never been a tight-knit family. I guess I've just learned to accept that.

But then Mom is sitting on the couch next to me, wrapping her arms around me and holding me tightly in her arms, a hand smoothing back my dark hair. "Oh, my baby," Mom whispers in my ear, her voice quivering. "I know you're not fine. How could you be? It's okay to not be okay, Mia. Just tell me. Let me in."

She cares, I find myself thinking, even though I already knew that. But there's a difference between knowing someone cares about you and having them show it. Actions do speak louder than words, after all. The most important conversations in this world can be spoken without a single sound, and in this moment I know that this is one of them. To let my mother in, I don't have to say anything. I just have to show her how much I care, just as she is showing me.