If Only You Knew

FIVE

In my fresh resolution to make amends, there I stood, on the steps of my Mom's porch paralized in thoughts and questioning my sudden optimism. What if she didn't respond to my olive branch? What if she didn't see the bridge I was trying to build between us? The thought of not being heard by her or understood, the same way I felt as a teenager, made me stomarch churn in nervousness. But what if she was responsive to my efforts to grow past our differences? I would love to finally talk to her about everything without feeling any tension between us. This could become the beginning of a brand new chapter for us both.

After a long deep breath, I finally pressed the doorbell. I heard the chime echo inside, making my heart race and my palms sweaty. The door creaked open, revealing my mother looking both surprised and inquisitive.

- Hey Mom, I said, my voice a little shaky.
- Why did you ring the doorbell?

Her accusatory tone instantly reduced me to feeling like I did something wrong. For a second I felt my hopes of bridging the gap and turning over a new leaf threatened. I forced a smile stepping inside, ignoring my first instinct to flee.

- Just trying to be more respectful of your space, I replied, my words tinged with a touch of apprehension.

My mother's expression softened slightly, but I could tell her guard was up.

- It's also your house, you know that, she said.

I offered a nod in acknowledgment before she pulled me into her embrace. Together, we headed to the kitchen, where the familiar scent of home brought me some comfort. The countertops were cluttered with bowls, ginger roots, and freshly ground ginger. The mingling scents of lemon juice and sugar hung in the air telling me she had been at it for a while.

- Are you making gnamakoudji?

My question was answered with a proud smile from my mother, who gestured toward a dozen bottles already filled with the sweet juice. This sight reminded me of us cooking, baking and juicing on my weekends with her. My mother's love was never about deep conversation or girl talk with me, but instead it was expressed through the shared activity of cooking. The kitchen was our time capsule, preserving our warmest interactions over the years.

- Can I bring some to Chloe's? I haven't had it in so long, I said excited. 
- Of course, you don't need to ask. 

I stepped around the kitchen island to clean up a few items, out of a habit. 

- How can I help? 
- You can strain the ground ginger into one of the large mixing bowl. 

With a quick glance around me, I spotted the necessary tools for my task. Being raised by an African mother meant to rapidly become independent. She was a woman of a few words and too many questions often got me in trouble growing up. As an adult now, I understood that her own tough upbringing made an impact in her parenting approach. This was the main source of our tension, as to her, I was always a disappointment compared to her traditional views on life.

- How is London? she asked, breaking the silence.
- It's going well, everything is still increasingly expensive since Brexit, I replied.

My mother made an audible response, her eyes scanning my face. Engaging in small talk with her was a skill I had learned to perfect. I knew how to sound convincing and deflect when necessary. This was actually the easiest part of our little dance.

- Are you still doing that acting thing?

A slight twinge of irritation pinched me at her implication that my passion was just a phase. Despite the lack of genuine interest behind her question, I was determined to not give into old ways and bite back. After all, I was here to mend our differences and build a new dynamic between us.