I was only eight when my mother read me that story. It was on her prized bookshelf, guarded by the clutter of her room. Among the greatest works of literature, this children's book hid in the shadows. It was old and falling apart, as though one uneven breath would shatter it to dust. My mother barely touched these books - they were icons, reminders, trophies. I was always told they were not to be held by pudgy, childish hands.
I obeyed diligently ever since an incident when I was six. It was in my attempt to reach a book on her shelf with a particularly shiny cover. But I lost my balance, knocking everything shelved onto the ground with a resounding crash. When my mother got upstairs, she was furious. Even now, her anger from that day echoes in the back of my mind.
So I was surprised, years later, when she insisted on reading me a favourite from her collection. I abandoned my toys in the hall and followed dutifully. Her room had barely changed since she prohibited me from it. The only visible difference were her books, strategically placed three shelves higher.
"Come in, dear. Don't be frightened. Shut the door behind you." I hesitated, legs weak over the wooden flooring. "Come, sit on the bed with me." In her hands she gently held the children's book. Her long, thin fingers caressed the decaying cover. I reached for it, but her returning glare told me to only look - not touch. "This was my favourite story when I was your age. I always wanted to share it with you." She gave me a brief, empty smile. "I hope you will treasure it someday."
Love poured from her eyes as she turned to the first page. So much dust billowed up that I had to hold back a cough. I feared what may happen if I let it out. She began reading, speaking more to herself than me.
It was the story of a researcher searching for a long lost treasure. His hunt had brought him to an old stone wall, crumbled and invaded by moss. This wall had once surrounded a great kingdom lost to time. And somewhere in there, buried, was a precious and priceless jewel, hidden away by their king.
The researcher began digging through piles of meaningless stones. It took him hours before finding one with a bluish hue. He held it in his hands and rolled it over. Although it looked shiny, it felt cold and heavy - he knew the real gem should be warm - this stone was a fake. The researcher dropped it on the ground and kept looking. Only after days of tireless searching did he come across another unique stone. It was marred with dust. As he picked it up to wipe it of, he felt the warmth and knew this was real. He packed all his stuff and headed home with the jewel in hand, all the other rocks left ruined and forgotten. Eventually, centuries later a city was built on the same grounds - but there was no wall. The stones had long since eroded to dust.
After the last word rolled off my mother's tongue and lingered in the room a moment too long, she turned to me.
"Lizzy, dear, I want you to be that jewel. Always." I looked back up at her.
"What do you mean?" My mother sighed.
"I mean, dear, that you should never be like the other stones in that wall. You are special - not like everyone else." She brushed a strand of my hair behind my ear. "And you can never crumble like others, or falsely sparkle. I know you can be the purest, most incredible person; and I want you to strive for no less." My mother stepped up and put the book back in its place. She turned back towards me. "And then, just like the scientist uncovered the true stone in all the fakes - you will be discovered and do something great."
_______
I believe that story first returned to me in the sixth grade. My mother insisted I apply for several middle schools outside my district. They weren't like other schools, she said, they followed a more advanced learning track. Grades and report cards had never occured to me before: I'd still move up to the next year and I'd still learn what I needed to. Yet, these schools were now asking for my marks; these assessments impacted my academics in a way they hadn't before.
I got nervous. Mother told me not to worry, that I was better than other applicants and the schools would see that. My mind sifted back to her book and the wall with millions of stones. These stones morphed into the thousands of students applying for a few places; and those schools, like the researcher, scouring for the hidden jewel in heaps of worthless rocks.
_______
Over the course of middle school, my Mother changed more and more. It was subtle at first, so I didn't realize until too late. Until my stifled tears were drowning me. When I was young, my mother would hold me close and tell me that everything would be okay. Sometime during middle school, though, my mother stopped consoling me. She would tell me that tears did nothing. Instead, she would shut me in my room with piles of textbooks because that was supposed to comfort me. All good came to those who worked hard. I needed to be taught that - I needed to remember the story like a lifeline.
As per her requests, I stopped crying all together.
_______
One of the most memorable feelings was when I threw my only award into the trash. It collided with cardboard boxes and used tissues, the golden sheen lost to uneaten food and snot. Second place was suddenly not good enough, at least not if I wanted to be anything. My accelerated school was difficult, and I spent the entirety of eighth grade working. I had no friends or hobbies, but mother had stopped complaining, so I knew I was doing something right. I knew there must be some sort of payoff.
Soon enough it was the last two weeks of eighth grade. My marks were the highest in the class - my teacher told my mother that in confidence. Later, my mother turned to me to say that I was already being discovered. The story whispered to me, reminding me that mom did not want me to be the gem, she expected it of me. Then it was graduation, and I was standing on the auditorium stage next to Carol Summers. When they called my name I walked across, my blue gown trailing along the wooden flooring. Mother's stare burned into me from her seat in the audience. I reached my hands out, my fingers tingling with anticipation. But the award I received was not the one I was expecting, preparing for. It was a consolation prize. I smiled without joy and moved to the side of the stage. I watched as Carol accepted the plaque meant for me.
Miraculously, I made it off the stage before breaking down - something I had not done in months. I still remember how my classmates looked at me, disgusted, as I fell to my knees and whined. All the tears I'd built up were finally escaping me. Teachers clustered around me and suggested getting my mother, but I begged them not to. I didn't want to be a disappointment to her, for her to see me so broken and dysfunctional. She would yell at me, she would lock me in my room, she would despise me. And I was so... scared.
_______
In high school I resolved to do better. I was going to make something of myself. I had to. Because of this, the next time I cried was much later, when I got my first C. It was on an English paper. My teacher told me not to worry, I was still on track to do well. He said a fluke did not define me. Over lunch, my peers tried to reassure me. My marks were still better than theirs. I wanted to tell everyone that they didn't understand, that it was more than the marks. But I bit my tongue until I got home. When Mother heard about it, I was surprised to see she was not furious. Rather, she was disappointed, and that was a whole lot worse.
"I expected more from you." She stared at me from across the table.
"I know, I'm sorry, I'll do better." My words sounded weak. "I promise it will not happen again."
"Why are you shaking?" I looked down at my dinner.
"I'm not shaking..." Something churned in my stomach.
"Do you think I'm some sort of monster or something? Lizzy, dear, look at me." I looked at her. "I'm just trying to do what's best for you."
"I know."
"But do you?" My stomach ache was growing. I turned to the stairs.
"Mom, I don't feel so good. Can we not talk right now?" I heard her sigh.
"Lizzy, I'm serious. Look at me." I looked. "I know it's a lot right now, but you'll be glad you did it eventually. My mother had low expectations of me and now I... there's just things I never had the opportunity to experience. I don't want to deprive you of those experiences." Her eyes were glazing over.
"I'm sorry, Mom. I understand." She smiled.
"I love you a lot Lizzy. That's why I expect more."
"I know."
"Hopefully it didn't drop your average too much." I nodded and she sighed again. "Alright, fine, you can go. But I don't want that to happen again." I nodded once more before running upstairs.
The expectations only got worse. A few days afterwards, I received 98 on my Science midterm. At home I showed my Mother my mark. Her eyes briefly fluttered past before returning to her work. She passively remarked Keep it up and waved me away. That was that. In my head, without realizing, a new goal was set. Anything less was unacceptable.
_______
Soon enough it was time to apply to Post-Secondary programs. I had no idea where my interests lied, or where I wanted my future to go. Instead, as per Mother's suggestions, I applied for a few general science programs. Around this time, I noticed that my classmates were beginning to slack off: Universities would not receive their final Grade 12 marks. I did not know how to relax, so I kept pushing.
A few months later the acceptances began trickling in. I got into every program I applied for. Mother seemed content, but I was too stricken with worry to enjoy it. My last few months of high school were spent researching the respective programs and applying for scholarships. During this time I ate little food, had little sleep, and did not engage with others. I was miserable yet I could not stop. There were a few classmates I was closer with - but we fell out of touch. I did not go to prom.
Then there was that final fight, in early March, that I do not think I will ever forget. A moment of pure mounted fear, and when the glass hit the floor I was lucky it did not cut me. Mother smashed a cup in front of me as I kneeled, apologizing over and over again. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'll try harder. I know, I'm sorry. I had missed a deadline for a large scholarship; I had slipped up. The way my Mother looked me in the eyes practically choked me.
"What is wrong with you? This was a big opportunity." I watched her eyes fill with salty tears.
"I know, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." It was painful to look at her, to see the contortions on her face. Instead I focused on not crying - on not breaking.
"Seriously, Elizabeth, how could you forget about this. I don't even know what to say." Neither did I so I kept apologizing. I had failed her that easily, even after all these years of trying hard not to. "I don't know what I'm doing wrong."
"Nothing," I replied. "It's me. It's all me. I'm sorry."
I hated when my mother cried. Rather than compassion I was filled with fear - It was when she was emotional that she was unpredictable. I stood up and tried to hug her, but she pushed me away. "Not right now, Liz."
"I'm sorry," I murmured one last time.
For high school graduation, I made sure to hold back tears. Even when, despite all my efforts, I did not receive the top mark in any course. Even when I was given no recognition for my years of work. Even when the only thing handed to me was my diploma. I sat in the 5th row of the auditorium, watching the special handful of students grinning on the stage. I was surrounded by my peers - indivisible from them - hundreds of stones on a wall. If someone were to look down on all of us, they could never tell how hard I worked; I realized, for all they cared, I could have failed.
_______
Maybe that realization is why I dropped out of college. No matter how much I tried, no matter how much of my life I dedicated, I always came up short of success. When I stopped going to classes, nobody cared. I failed my Chemistry final but there was no one to scold me. I lied to my mother when she called. I was not special - just a rock - nothing would become of me.
I had burned myself out by the end of first year. Payments came for the second, but I did not pay them. I did not enroll in any courses. Instead I unenrolled from the University. I was too scared to tell my mother, so I waited until the last moment, knocking on her door with all my bags the evening before the next semester.
It was the longest period of silence we had ever had. I remember staying in my room, listening to her footsteps below me, and picturing her furiously stomping. I swore I heard that book speaking to me through the walls, shaming me, haunting me. I was a failure and I knew it. My mother knew it. I had never felt this anger before: anger not towards others, but reflected back at myself. Something had changed.
My mother started to cry in the evenings. She had always been temperamental, but now these tears were tied to me. The guilt I felt tore me apart. I would hear her moan and sniffle through the walls. Every now and again she would whisper small phrases: I don't deserve this, I can't handle this, It's too much, when did it all go wrong?
I don't know, I would silently whisper back, I'm sorry. But I would not cry - her tears alone were enough to drown me.
_______
It took me a few months of waitressing before I could afford my own apartment. It was tiny and reeked of mold, but it was better than home. Mother barely helped me, she refused to come to my new place. I think she wanted me further away, like a disaster she hoped to hide.
Soon enough it was my twenty-first birthday. I took the day off from work and treated myself to a cupcake. Later, Dave, my boyfriend at the time, took me out for a cheap dinner. After, when we were walking along Lakeshore, he turned to me.
"You seem down," he remarked. I looked out at the lake; the water was eerily still.
"I'm fine, just tired." He stopped walking.
"Did you not enjoy dinner?" I paused.
"No, no, it was fine."
"Then what's wrong? You haven't been yourself lately." There was a slight chill in the air. I pulled my hand from his, sliding it into my pocket.
"Nothing is wrong." My scarf was warm and I burrowed into it.
"Liz, this will only work if you can talk to me." He scratched his forehead.
"I do talk to you," I replied.
"Then tell me why you're so upset."
"I'm not upset!" He was right, of course, I was always upset. I was disappointed and filled with so many regrets. Any more and they would begin to spill out. "I'm just angry, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?"
"Angry... why?" I felt the rage boiling up in me.
"Why? Why? Because this is not the stupid life I wanted! I wanted a successful job; I wanted a nice house and friends and... and..." I wanted my mother to be proud. But I did not say that last part - I never said that last part.
"Are you saying I'm not good enough for you?!"
"No, I'm not, I'm just saying that..."
"Yes, that's exactly what you're saying. I'm fed up with you thinking you're better than me."
"Well," I was furious, "maybe I am. You have no idea who I am, or what I've accomplished!"
"Because you never tell me!" Dave took a deep breath. "You're here, aren't you? This is your life. No matter how many times you think you're above it, the truth is you're not. Otherwise you would have a college degree and a career that's not minimum effing wage. This is you. Learn to accept it, damn it." I stood still, watching silently as he began walking away. He turned around one last time. "I'm done." Those were his last words to me, and the last time I ever saw him. I cried the rest of the night and into the morning.
A week later, I learned that I was pregnant.
_______
Mary only met my mother once. I remember squeezing my daughter's hand tightly as we stumbled up the stone walkway. And when we rang the doorbell, my only thoughts were of taking Mary and running far away. I feared that my mother would hate Mary - that she'd represent failure in my mother's eye. But my mother opened the door with a smile that she'd never given me.
"Hi," she said, bending down, "You must be Mary. You know what, you look just like your mother did at your age." Six year old Mary scrutinized my mother's face.
"You look like my mommy too." My mother laughed.
"I guess I do." She smiled and I cringed. That Mary could resemble my mother frightened me. This time my mother turned to me. I could see right through the smile, now, to the scowl.
"Why don't you come in?" My hand still tight in Mary's, I walked through the entryway. Suddenly I felt nauseous: all the buried memories began clamouring around my childhood home. I wanted to go. But I had to be strong for Mary, seeing her grandma was her birthday wish. So instead we sat down on the hard living room sofa and waited while my mother brought tea and biscuits.
"So, Mary," she began, "What grade are you in?"
"Two!" And to annunciate, my daughter held up two stubby little fingers. My mother chuckled.
"Well, aren't you growing up fast. I bet you're a great student too." Mary gave an enthusiastic nod. I was scared where this conversation was going.
"Mary is in charge of feeding the pet hamster, right?" I piped in.
"Firstly, it's a guinea pig, and secondly it's just for this month," she corrected me. "His name is Marcus and he's orange."
"Well, he sounds very adorable." My mother took a sip of her tea, smiling as she did so. "And how about you, Elizabeth, what are you up to now?" I watched her eyes narrow slightly, like she was judging my worth.
"I'm a restaurant manager now, actually." Despite my best efforts to sound confident, my words came out weak.
"Well isn't that exciting."
"It makes ends meet." She nodded her head in false agreement.
"I'm sure it does." My mother turned back to Mary. "Ah, I wish you had come sooner. I'm just so lonely without a granddaughter in my life."
"Don't worry," Mary quickly consoled. "We'll be back soon."
"I sure hope so," She laughed. By now, my mother had almost finished her tea. She placed the cup on the coffee table before widening her eyes like she forgot something. "Oh my, when your mother moved out, she left a box of things here. How about I go grab them."
Mary nodded vigorously. She shook my shoulder. "Mommy, I wanna see your old stuff." I sighed and turned to my mother.
"Alright." Both Mary and I stayed while my mother went upstairs. A few minutes later she came back down with a dusty cardboard box. Inside was a bunch of random childhood possessions: notebooks, dolls, drawings. Mary gasped in excitement, then began investigating every single object. As she dug deeper in the box, I noticed my mother was holding something in her hands. It took me another second to realize it was that book - the one from my childhood.
My heart stopped.
Before my mother could do or say anything, I took Mary's hand and stood up.
"Well, look at the time." I pointed to the clock as an example. "I think we better get going."
"Oh, really, so soon?" My mother seemed genuinely sad. Once again, fear overshadowed compassion.
"Yeah, sorry." I took a step towards the door, dragging Mary by the arm. She was digging her heels into the carpet.
"But I don't wanna go," she was arguing as she resisted my tug.
"Here," my mother interrupted, "take these." She lifted the cardboard box off the floor and handed them to me.
"Really?" Mary smiled. "Thank you."
"No problem," my mother replied.
"Will we see you again?" Mary asked, then scrunched her face. "Ow, mommy. That hurts." I loosened my grip on her arm.
"Sorry dear." As I apologized my mother bent down and hugged Mary. Every nerve inside me froze. She whispered something in my daughter's ear, and Mary nodded in return. I could not tell what my mother said. Eventually, my mother stood up and led us to the door.
"I hope to see you soon!" She waved while we walked down the stone walkway and got in the car, and as we drove out of sight. The entire trip Mary sat in the backseat, playing with the trinkets of my cardboard box. Meanwhile, I was figuring out where in the attic it would fit. I asked her what grandma said to her, but Mary simply told me it was a secret.
_______
I am thirty five now. It has been almost three decades since my mother read me that story. Thirty years of her words haunting me, echoing inside me, pushing me until I break. She may have forgotten that day - in the later years of her life, she forgot a lot of things. But I haven't. I can still smell her perfume and hear the crinkling of paper. I see her flipping through the pages as dust clouds form, her eyes slightly glossing over. No matter how many times I try to push the memory away, it keeps coming back. It is my ghost.
I sit down on the floor by my bed, my back beneath the window. Streams of light escape into the room and bounce off the walls. They glow inside the darkness. I pull out my bottle of painkillers and examine the label. Take one pill a day. I have obeyed these provisions for months in the same manner I obeyed my mother my entire life. But it was not sustainable; all the pressure and all the perfection broke me. Now I am nothing more than a shattered rock. Cracked open because someone thought I might hide something greater than my exterior, then crushed and forgotten because they realized they were wrong.
Slowly, I twist off the cap. There are at least a dozen left: I have no idea if it will work, but I am beyond caring. I start by taking one. A small part of me hesitates and reaches for the lid, what if this is a big mistake? Then I remember thousands of stones left to ruin and I know I will be one of them - living is delaying the inevitable. I swallow the rest of the bottle. Then I wait. Minutes pass, or it could be hours; time loosens and things begin to unravel. It abruptly dawns on me that I have done something unforgivable. I stand up weakly - the effects are already beginning to take place. I lean against the wall, slowly shuffling over towards the washroom. My legs suddenly give out and I crash to the floor. It's okay, though, because I feel a great comfort wash over me. A great calm. And then she appears before me.
"Mom!" There is a screech somewhere, possibly at the door. But the person I see doesn't speak. No, the person I see just stares at me. I cannot read her. Disappointment? Rage? Sorrow? Mom, I could never satisfy you, could I? I'm sorry about that. "What the hell! Mom! Wake up!!" The voice now has a figure, a silhouette. It shakes me. But I do not take my eyes off my mother. Be honest, Mom, did I make you proud at least once? Because I tried. I tried.
"Stop, Mom, this isn't funny! Please wake up!!" I try to push the figure away. I have to speak with my Mother undisturbed. Instead, they grab my hand and squeeze it. "Shit, where's my phone." Stinging, wet pellets fall onto my arm. It is raining but my mother does not move. She just stares. I tried, Mom, I really did. I gave it my all. I gave up my life to make you proud. And it still wasn't enough. In the distance I hear three beeps. Darkness crawls into the edges of my view. The figure is gone but my mother stays and stares. She is the last thing I see before my world goes black.
_______
It is dark at first. Long moments of emptiness. Then colours - giant blobs of blues and reds and yellows - form out of the void. They grow and merge until they consume the space. My eyes blink wildly and I feel as though I am waking from a long nap. There is a steady pressure on my right hand - it is warm and soft. It must be a gem - the one from the storybook.
Sharp angles form in the corners of my vision. The lines reach out - turn and twist - until they converge in the centre. Colours fill into the lines and the world finally returns to me. I am in a bare and unfamiliar room; it reeks of chemicals and sterilization. Beyond an opened door, a doctor rushes past. I sigh. Somehow, I could not even succeed at failing.
"Mom?" I blink again and turn to my side. Mary sits in a plastic hospital chair. Her eyes are laced with tears. "Mom? Are you okay?" My eyes fall down to her hand securely nestled in mine, then up above her face. The neon lighting briefly flickers; outside, I hear birds chirping. "Mom!"
Suddenly, a tear escapes. It trails across my cheek and falls down my chin, soaking into the white sheets beneath me. Another tear follows. I have no words, but I speak in other ways.
"Why would you do that?" I continue to cry. Mary takes her head and presses it into my stomach. I feel the vibrations as she shakes and the moisture as her tears soak through the blanket. "Why, mom, why?" Her voice is muffled and angry and confused. With my other hand, I feel for her head; I cannot see through my tears. Her hair is remarkably soft and I pet it, tracing the long, thick tendrils to their splitting ends. We lay there, like that, crying and shaking, for a long time.
Eventually Mary pulls back. She looks at me with her puffy eyes and cheeks crusted by dry tears. "Was it me? Is that why you did it?"
"No," is all I manage. My voice is wobbly and cracked. What I can't seem to say to Mary is that she was the only thing holding me back. She was my single gift, my single love, my single reason to live.
"Then why Mom, why did you do that to me?" I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. I'm sorry, I never meant to hurt you. "Why did you want to leave me?" I open my mouth but close it before the words escape. There was no other way. Mary stares down at me for a long moment. "Mother's aren't supposed to do that." Flashes of my mother burrow into my head. How was I supposed to know with a mother like that? Her lower lip quivers for a split second before tightening with resolve. "Fine, if you don't want to talk, don't. I'll go get the nurse." I watch Mary stand up and make her way out of the room. Then it is me and the bed and the beeping monitors and the memories. If my eyes weren't dry, I may have cried again.
_______
"I couldn't handle the pressure." Mary looks up from her novel. I lie in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling and the fluorescent lights. I haven't spoken in three days. She folds the corner of the page she's on and shuts the book. "I was a failure. It had to end." I reach out my hands towards her. "I'm sorry."
"What pressure?" She puts her palm against mine - her's is only slightly smaller. "I mean, if it had anything to do with me, or that time I-"
"No," I interject. "No, no, no. You could never do anything to hurt me. I love you so, so much." I choke on the last few words.
"I love you too Mom." She takes my hand and presses it to her forehead.
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay." It takes a minute to regain myself. I focus on my heartbeats, on my breaths, counting like I were counting sheep. I hear Mary's breaths beside mine, smaller but there.
"There's a reason you only met my mother once."
"You mean grandma?" I suddenly tense.
"Please don't call her that."
"Why?"
"I don't like it." Mary doesn't push. "I don't like her." The clock is ticking in the background and all the windows are shut. Suddenly the room is sweltering with my mother's perfume; she's reading the story to me and I hate it, all of it. Once upon a time there was an old, stone wall. I jump out of my bed.
"Mom, what's wrong?" Mary steps back.
"I just... I need some fresh air." She heads for the window. "No, outside. I need to go outside." Mary pauses for a second.
"Okay, stay here. I'll get your coat."
We sit on a wooden bench in the courtyard, a square of grass surrounded by hospital hallways. It is almost November and autumn leaves crowd the walkway; rich yellows and oranges and browns. A squirrel scurries past a few meters from our feet. The wind heightens for a moment, but dies back down.
"You know, if it's too hard, you don't have to tell me. I understand." As she talks, Mary picks at the splintering wood on the bench.
"It's not that I don't want to tell you," I respond, fiddling with my coat buttons. "Just, I've kept it down so long it's hard to vocalize. And when I try, it brings up a lot of other stuff I'd rather not remember."
'Does it have to do with Gra- your mother?" I nod. I am seeing her again, in the back of my mind. She is in the audience, watching me accept a subpar prize. She is looking at me on the porch, scrutinizing my worn duffle bag. She is dumping moving boxes in my room after telling her I'm moving out. She is smashing the cup. She is crying through the walls. She is in every memory, every moment; she is inescapable.
"Mom, Mom!" Mary is shaking me back, a worried look in her eyes. My heart is beating fast and I take a deep breath.
"I'm sorry, I'm trying. But everywhere I go, she's there. It's so hard..."
"Don't push yourself, Mom, we have time. And I'll always be here for you, no matter how long it takes." I turn to my daughter. "We're in this together now, okay?" She grins and my worries melt.
"Okay." At this moment, I have never loved Mary more. But I should also agree to never love her less - no matter what happens. She could grow to hate me, fail out of school, abandon me, and she'd still be my most treasured possession. I'd stand by her through anything. I wonder if my own mother ever felt that way; if it was innate.
I take my arms and wrap them around Mary. It reminds me of the first time I held her in the delivery room. She was so tiny and delicate and warm; she was my everything. She still is. Years later, when the time is right, maybe I'll tell her about my mother. About the years of my life I spent working towards unattainable goals. About the nagging and incessant feelings of failure; how they grow and spiral and consume. Maybe I'll tell her about that day, when I was eight years old, and my mother sat me down to read a story.
No, I will not tell her about that. The story. I will never read it to her. It will stay in the attic, buried in a moving box like every other asset of my mother's. I want to be better than that; if that pressure is what broke me I am not going to let it break Mary. Rather I squeeze my daughter tighter.
"Mom, I can't breath."
"Sorry," I say, pulling back. I look down at all the autumn leaves. As I shuffle my feet they spread, revealing the stone path.
"She loved you, you know."
"What?" I turn back to Mary.
"She really did. I mean, I don't know what you went through, but I just thought you should know that she did." My gaze hardens a little.
"How are you so sure?" Mary smiles gently.
"Cause that's what she told me all those years ago. To take care of you, no matter what." I think back to the day Mary met my mother, and how I feared what she had been whispered. But they were simply words of love, whilst all I have for her are words of hate. "It's okay, mom, don't worry." As Mary's hand rests against my shoulder, I return my eyes to the ground and push back the tears. I'm sorry.
"It's pretty, isn't it?" Suddenly Mary has my attention again. She looks out across the stone walkway strewn with autumn leaves.
"What do you mean?" Mary grins wide.
"I don't know, I just like it. The way the stones come together to form a mosaic. It feels like it's pulled straight from an old, grand palace." Mary stops and stares at me for a second. "Sorry, I started rambling."
"Don't worry about it," I smile, "I enjoyed it."
"Then why are you crying?" I haven't realized tears are tracing down my cheek. Gently, Mary wipes them away with her sleeve.
"I don't know," I remark through the tears. More and more, though, I am realizing that that is okay.
This was not the life I had envisioned for myself when I was still in school, and this was definitely not the life my mother had envisioned for me when she pulled that book from her shelf. I have no idea what I'm doing, or where I'm going, or how I'm going to do it. But as Mary pulls me back into the hospital room, as she hands me stashed pamphlets of college programs, as she opens the window and lets the light flow in, I thank the world for this incredible blessing, and know that even if only in the eyes of those I love, I am discovered.