Chapter 3 - My Mother's Kitchen
My mother, Lydia, opened her door in slippers and an old green cardigan. When she saw my face she didn't ask questions, just opened the door wider. "Tea?"
I nodded. Five minutes later I sat at her table holding a warm mug in both hands.
"Do you want me to tell you what to do?"
"No."
"Good. Because I have absolutely no idea."
I almost laughed. Then I told her everything.
When I finished, she reached across the table and touched my wrist. "You can love someone and still be unhappy with the life you've created together."
"What if Warren was right? What if I stayed because he needed me?"
"I can't answer that for you." I hated the answer because it was honest.
Then she studied me. "You've been saying 'I've got it' since you were twelve."
"I don't say that that often."
She raised an eyebrow. "Fine. Maybe I do."
"Sometimes you say it so quickly nobody gets a chance to offer help. When someone needs you, you run toward them. You always have." My throat tightened. "The harder question is what you do when they don't need you."
Driving home later, I finally admitted something uncomfortable. I had liked being needed. Before Warren got sick, I never knew where I stood with him. During treatment, I always knew. When he was nauseated, he called for me. When he was frightened, he reached for me. When something went wrong, I was the first person he wanted.
May you like
For the first time in years, I felt essential. And somewhere along the way, being needed had begun to feel dangerously similar to being loved.
Maybe Warren and I were both right about parts of the story.
