turned to her and, perhaps too abruptly, said “Why can’t you be happy for me? Why can’t you try?”
"I’m just not ready for the all-day-in-the-room phase. I thought we were friends," she said. I could tell she was trying to be cute and I wouldn’t let her.
"Yeah, I don't think we're supposed to be. I think we're supposed to be mother and daughter.”
She winced and her probing brown eyes relinquished me. She looked overwhelmed, as if the responsibility of motherhood suddenly swooped down and picked the flesh off her bones. But as I gathered more paint, I felt her eyes on me again as she opened her mouth to finally speak.
"Let me just say this, Loney: If I was like all the other moms, you wouldn't be you.”
It was something I was not ready to hear, something not ready to be said. Like a last will and testament read too early. I’d never been so angry at how her lifestyle had affected me until she so boldly defended it. I couldn’t sleep at night but she could and now I knew why.
She wanted a reaction, but I just started on another wall, pressing even harder in broad strokes, trying to finish quickly so I could leave. I felt cavernous inside. Staring into the blank paint, I felt cathedrals build inside me. Knowing Mom loves cathedrals, I didn't want her to see these. These were for me. In one, I prayed for her. That she would be okay. In another, I