Hey, Celia? | ✔️

Chapter Twelve

Hey.

Hey, Celia.

Actually, I'm glad you texted.

Oh? Why's that, sweetums?

I had a question and it's been bugging me.

Okay, well then ask away so those bugs can live their buggy lives in peace and stop bugging you.

When you texted, that first night, by accident, what were you thinking way too hard about?

Dang. That's quite the question.

Too personal?

Way too personal.

Sorry.

I was thinking about my mother.

That and, well, I don't know.

You do know.

I was thinking about conditions.

Conditions of what?

Love.

What do you mean by that?

At what cost, and with what conditions, is love given?

From birth, your mother is supposed to love you unconditionally and vice versa. My mother did love me nearly unconditionally. There was only one little condition, one little thing I had to attain: perfection.

One little condition, and I couldn't even honor that right, could I?

Celia, don't even think like that.

That's the biggest condition anyone could ask for. It's unattainable. Perfection is an idea, not reality. No one person and no one thing could ever be described by that word and it be entirely accurate.

Love should be unconditional, especially the love between a mother and her daughter.

I'm sorry.

Not for you, but for her.

I'm sorry that it seems she was so hung up on ideal perfection that she lost sight of the unique perfection that is you, aspirations of adopting an entire nation in the North while being a 58 year old ex-con included.

Celia?

You there?

Hello?

Okay, it's fine if you don't want to talk. I shouldn't have pried.

Sorry.

And a half. *

What?

58 and a half year old ex-convict. *

58 and a half it is then, Celia. 58 and a half it is.