Love, Mom

Love, Mom

By: Julia Miller

The bell dings as I pull the door and take my first step in. The warmth of the shop radiates off my freshly wind burnt face. I can feel my body recovering after the long walk from my apartment.  The store smells of cleaner that is trying to mask the scent of must. The first look inside the store is overwhelming. There are dresses, handbags, and clothing everywhere. Nothing seems to fit just right in this store. Each item is taken from its home and dropped off here to find a new place to go. I take a deep breath and scan the room for coats. It beginning to drop in temperature and leaves are starting to disappear. This is my first holiday season on my own away from my family and friends. I recently packed my things and decided to move a state away from everything I have ever known. On the outside it appears that I have the dream job, dream apartment, and dream life but on the inside I battle every day to make ends meet. My dream job barely pays for my dream apartment, and the student loans continue to flow in month after month.  

My hands glide over the different coats- fur, velvet, quilted. I am expected home for Christmas and appearance is everything. My eyes scroll through the maze of tags with designer brands. I will be expected to look put together, and my family is no stranger to the finer things in life. I have to find a something that will fit their view of my lifestyle. This second hand store carries brands that will have to do. I head to the twenty and under section- this is all I could afford if I wanted my phone bill to get paid this month. There aren’t many people in the store but it seems like we all make a point to keep our eyes locked on the floor. The weight of shame laying on our eyelids.

“Hi! Can I help you find anything?”

Chirps the obviously new employee. I feel the heat rise back to my wind burnt cheeks. I wonder if she can see the shame that fills my cheeks.

I mutter “No, just looking. Thank you.” and I step around her.

 I pick a coat that is black in color and has the mark of a designer on the pocket. This is the best option I can find. The zipper is slightly worn, but it could pass for a gently used coat I have had for a while. The coat smells like the candle store around the corner, full of seasonal scents. I do a once over and only notice a few snags here and there and convince myself that this is worth the 19.99 it is priced at. I swivel around the different displays to find myself at the check-out counter. The anxiety of putting my card in the chip reader thumped in my chest. I wait as the machines processes my purchase. With every second the thumping in my chest grows. Do I have enough money on my card? I hope my paycheck has been cashed. Then the pen pads start beeping at me to remove my card- approved. A wave of relief flows through my body. I almost let out a sigh of relief. The fresh faced employee gathers my receipt and asks if I want a bag. I decide I wanted to wear it back to my apartment to fight the ever dropping temperature.

I slide both arms into the warm fabric and feel the coat hug my body. I grab the cold zipper and carefully guide it through the frayed material up to the top of the track. My hand wraps around the metal door handle and the bell rings good-bye. My foot hits the pavement of the downtown side walk. The wind rustles the leaves and brushes my face. Even with my new coat my body lets out a shiver. My hands find their way to the pocket of this second hand coat. They feel the soft inner lining of the once expensive coat. As they move around I can feel something in my right pocket. It crunches like a receipt but feel s to thinner than the department store proof of purchase. I stop my pace to take this foreign object out of my pocket. I flatten the edges and smooth out the writing. The paper has the original body of a piece of white printer paper. Now there is a tint of finger prints, lint, and everyday pollution.  The creases stay no matter how many times I try to restore the page.  I do my best to restore it to it’s natural state. The page is covered in a delicate cursive flow that reads:

“Janet,

Your struggle is my struggle. I can hear the pain in voice. I am writing you to ask you if you need my help. You don’t call or text anymore so this is my last effort to reach out to you. I am your mother and I want to help. No matter how old you are, you will always be my baby. You are so strong for taking this leap of faith, and its ok if things are perfect like you thought. Please call, text, or write me back. You have me worried.

Love,

Mom”

I feel tear streak down my cheek. I bite back the lump in my throat and close my eyes in an effort to stop the flow of emotions. I have been alone in this city but now I feel like I am no longer on my own island. I am not the only one struggling, and I have a family that would do the same for me as Janet’s mom would do for her. This lone coat in a sea of options was placed in my path for a reason. I clasp the note to my heart and whisper a silent thank you to Janet.