The Beautiful You

Forty-two ~ Diamonds

The tightness in my chest relaxed a little. Even if it was such a mom thing to say, it still felt good to hear her say that.

I don't always feel that way about myself.

I feel out of place.

Different.

You are the most beautiful thing.

I'm not the person they think I am. I wondered if they knew that, or if they're in denial. I'll never be the version of myself that they want. I'll always disappoint them.

And I'm afraid that sharing the most vulnerable part of myself will make them realize I'm no better than my brother. That in their attempt to raise the perfect son, I was another failure.

"Mom." My voice cracked. Something that hasn't happened since I was 15. "I'm sorry." The tears kept coming the more I thought about what would come next after I told her everything.

The thousands of things I'd been keeping inside from spilling out. My secrets, my fears...

I glanced down at my hands and whispered, "I never know when I'm doing something wrong or right, or how to act in front of you guys. It's hard trying to be the version of me you want when in reality–I'm so far from it."

"Mijo, you don't have to be anyone but yourself." She smiled, the type of warm smile that I was convinced could melt the snow outside. And I wanted her to keep smiling at me, even after what came next. I hoped that she would keep smiling at me.

"I'm in love with Amory."

There was a brief silence between the two of us. The only noise in the air was the faint sound of the T.V.

I was afraid to look at her, but all I could imagine was disgust. And that wonderful thing that she said, it would all be for nothing. She'll take it back because now she knows the truth.

"Why would you be sorry?" She asked. Her hand clasped mine tightly like she was never going to let go.

"Because all I do is disappoint you."

"You've never disappointed me, and I'm proud of the man you've grown into. You're more than I ever could have imagined; you're better."

"You're not mad?" I wiped my tears.

She smiled and glanced at the door, shaking her head.

"I don't think you're any different than you were before," my mom murmured. "If this is who you are then I'll take it–because you're good."

"You don't hate me?" I asked. "I always thought you would. Abuela used to say—"

"I'm not my mom," she said. She glanced down at our intertwined hands and sighed deeply. I could tell by the way she bit her bottom lip that she was hesitating to say something. "Do you remember when I had that miscarriage?"

I nodded. We never talked about it before, but I remember it clearly. It was a version of my mother that stayed in the past, and a version of her that I hadn't seen since I was a kid.

"I was so worried and guilty about having a new baby," she admitted. "It was more stressful than it was joyful. I spent all that time worrying about the future and then all of a sudden, they were gone. In a moment, just like that." She snapped her fingers, emphasizing how quick the events happened.

"I thought that maybe it was a sign, and all my worries and stress were for a reason." She paused and turned her attention towards the window. "I spent all that time worrying about the future that I never got the chance to enjoy the fact that I would have another child. I regret it to this day, and it's something that I still think about when I see your faces. I blame myself for it all the time even after all these years."