Perfectly Imperfect

Diecisiete: Crushed all over again

  "Well. . . My mom just left."

  . . . How the frick am I supposed to respond to this?

  'Yeah, my mom just left my life forever.'

  'Oh. . . That sucks.'

  I don't think so!

  I looked down at the old, weathered picnic table we're sitting at and studied one of the names that's carved into it, contemplating a response.

  "Were you two close?" I decided on asking.

"It was complicated," she responded with her head down.

I looked at her for a second. After I realized she wasn't going to elaborate I asked her another question, just to keep the ball rolling. "How was it complicated?"

  She took a deep breath. "This isn't the first time she's just picked up and walked out of our lives, not to be seen or heard from for years."

  I frowned. What?

"It happened the first time when I was 7. Her and my dad had a falling out and she just. . . Left." She's tearing up again. "Was I not good enough for her? A good enough reason to stay. To try." She paused then let out a humorless laugh and shook her head. "Of course I wasn't. What am I even saying? All I am is a disappointment. . . That's all I've ever been." Her face is turning a crimson color now. She's getting even more upset. "I don't know what I was expecting. If my dad and I weren't good enough for her then, why would we be good enough now?"

"Wait so, She came back after deserting you?" I said getting frustrated.

She made Sam feel like she wasn't enough, like she was a disappointment. No matter how many times someone messes up. No one should feel like that. Her mom should have at least tried to clear up the fact that she wasn't a complete and utter disappointment, if she really cared. And I'm no therapist, but that's probably one of the reasons Sam's always getting into trouble. To keep her mind off of it, but in reality, it's just getting her deeper into things she doesn't want.

She looked up at me. She looks. . . Broken. Crushed. "The sad thing is. It made me the happiest little girl in the world when she came back on my 13th birthday. That, and the fact we were fanatically screwed, made us welcome her back into our lives with open arms. . . It crushed me all over again when she left last Friday."

Crap. I shouldn't have asked that. I was prying. That's not what she needs right now.

  "She left this past Friday?" I said feeling a bit of hope rise in me that she didn't leave for good.

  Why hope rose in me is another one of those things that makes no sense at the moment.

  She hung her head lower — if that's even possible. "No. The Friday before that," she said dejectedly.

  My hopes fell. Of course, not as hard as hers probably do every time that sentence runs through her mind.

  What do I say? Would she hate an apology? Does she want me to say something? Is she waiting for me to say something?