Just Like Her

Chapter 41

Emma

I sat on the front step, a strong cup of coffee in one hand and a pen in the other. I had the local paper splayed across my knees as I was scanning the classifieds section for open positions. I was in the middle of circling one advertisement for an office clerk, when the front door suddenly banged open, only just missing me by a few centimeters.

"Mum!" I exclaimed, whipping around.

She stood in the doorway, her figure nearly filling the frame with her legs wide apart and her hands practically clutching at her hips. Her jaw was firmly set in a scowl and her eyes were daring anyone to test her. I swallowed the growing lump in my throat.

"Wh-what did I—"

"Oh for Christ's sake, Emma!" She declared, her arms exploding out from her sides as she stepped closer to me. "You've been sittin' on that step for over an hour—"

"I was looking for work!" I rebutted, feeling oddly defensive.

"Well you won't find any work for a writer in those ads," she fired back.

I sighed. "Mum—"

"Nor anywhere in Kerry!"

"I'm not a writer!"

"Yes, you—"

"Not a real one!" I retorted, letting the paper fall away to the ground as I stood to face her. "Besides, I don't want to be! It's not exactly a stable profession."

"And Lord forbid you lack any stability in your life," she huffed as her gaze fell to a nearby patch of ivy.

I could feel the wave of heat splashing across my cheeks. "And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"You may not want to talk about his royal highness—"

"Call him Tom, Mum. Titles are too... " I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose as I let out a heavy sigh. "Too weird."

"You may not want to talk about him," she continued on, "but we're going to."

"Mum, please, I'm fine!"

My eyes flashed open at the heightened pitch of her voice. "You're not fine!"

My mother's own eyes were watering and her previously stern chin was now quivering. "You listen here, young lady, no one has permission to make my daughter miserable, least of all you!"

I shook my head adamantly. "Mum, I'm not—"

"You don't speak, you don't eat—you don't even read, Emma! Don't tell me you aren't hurting. I'm your mother for Christ's sake, I know when my own daughter is in pain."

I shrugged helplessly as my own eyes began to fill with tears. "Yes, I miss him! Is that what you want me to say? I'm doing my best, honest I am! But what else am I supposed to do? I don't have any money—I don't even have a job!"

"I give you permission!" She exclaimed suddenly, her hands flaring at her sides.

I shook my head helplessly. "What are you—"

With two steps, she stood before me. "I give you permission," she repeated as she tucked a loose curl behind my ear, "to be young and reckless and to follow your dreams, even if it scares the pants off you."

"Mum!" I tried to pull away, but she hooked my chin with her finger and tugged it upward so our eyes met.

Hers were still filled with tears, though they didn't appear altogether sad. Ever since my father's death, her gaze often took on a mixture of bereavement and joy as if she was no longer capable of feeling either in isolation.

"You were always such a brilliant writer and so full of life," she whispered with a mournful smile. "You just... lost a bit of that along the way. You'll never write anything here—and you are a writer, Emma. You always have been, but if you stay here," her words slowed as her eyes searched mine hopefully for signs of understanding. "You'll settle for work at the local library or shop and you'll just... you won't live, Emma, and you're so young—you have to live!"

She clasped both of my shoulders and squeezed with emphasis. "You have to take every opportunity you can! And I'm sorry, dear, but if you stay you'll be passing up opportunities for you to happy and as your mother I just—I just can't allow that."

Memories of my mother and father dancing in the kitchen flashed before my eyes. I blinked rapidly, desperate to keep the impending grief at bay.

Mum smiled knowingly as she slowly began to wipe away my tears, one by one. "So I'm giving you permission, Emma, if that's what you need. I'm giving you permission to be happy."

"But you'll be all alone..." I rasped.

"I'm a big girl, Emma." She teased. "I can mind myself."

"Don't you miss him?" I sniffed, still hearing the echo of their laughter over the crackling jazz on the radio.

Mum just blinked at me.

"Every moment of every day," she eventually answered. "But every time I think of your father, I feel him with me. So you see I'm not alone, not really."

The remainder of my tears fell freely then and my voice broke over my stuttering words. "Promise we'll t-talk on the phone every day."

Mum pulled me into her chest. "Fine by me," she murmured into my hair.

"And I'll come down on the weekends," I continued to blubber.

"Only when you're not busy."

"And you can come up!"

"Sure darling," she laughed.

I hesitated before pulling away just enough to meet her gaze once more. "You don't think I'm mental for doing this?"

Mum shook her head, no. "I think you're in love and you should take the leap—and if you fall on your arse, you stand up and brush it off."

Laughter racked my chest as I wiped away my own tears. "Thanks, Mum."