Unconditional Love

“You heard me. Leave. I don't want to see you come back.” 

            Her eyes were hard on yours, drilling every ounce of her anger and fury into your body. You held her gaze for a moment, waiting to see how far she was going to let this go, how much she really meant the hateful words that she had thrown at you just moments before.

Everyone in the living room had gone silent. You didn’t look, but you could feel the tension radiating between each member of the family from their respective positions: your younger sister was on the carpeted floor below you, stiff as a board; your father was sat in his old, worn, leather recliner; your older brother was sitting on the couch beside you, head turned in your direction, but eyes averted to the person who had just spoken; finally, your mother was standing in the doorway, shoulders hunched and brow furrowed, what could only be described as a snarl on her face, awaiting your next move.

“Out. I want you out.” She had stormed into the house just moments before, interrupting your conversation. “What'd you say, Ma? Sorry, I’ll call you back later.” You had hung up the phone and directed your attention to your mother.

“I said, get out of my house. You’ve disgraced this family. God help you, Jessica, because you’re going to have to beg for His forgiveness.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Mom?” David had said, walking in from the kitchen when he heard her quickly escalating tone.

Your mother’s eyes had locked onto yours, and for the first time, you truly felt afraid. She had always commanded respect in your home, but she was still your mom. She loved David, and Rhea, and Dad, and you. She loved you.

“I know you’re pregnant, Jessica. I saw the test in your bathroom this morning.” “Mom, what?” David had interjected, shaking his head as if she herself had grown a second. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You had said quietly, stomach flipping and brow furrowing.

“You think I don’t know when you’re sneaking out to go see Josh? Jessica Ann, you are breaking your promise to our Heavenly Father.” 

You had fully shifted on the couch so that you were looking directly at your mother. 

Your family was Irish Catholic, and the one thing that stuck with you over the years, through all of the Sunday mornings spent sitting in the pews at St. Paul’s, throughout your now thirteen years of Catholic schooling, was that Jesus loved you. From the moment you were born, you were told how much Jesus loved you, how His love was the strongest love you would ever feel. He was your comfort, your confidante, and you loved Him.

You knew that your mother had her beliefs, rigid as they may be, and you had my own. You never had the tough conversations with her because it always felt easier to just remain silent. You never wanted to ignite a situation that you knew would escalate quickly, the way a match burns out moments after being lit.

You had looked up at your mother. Your heart had been quivering in your chest. This had been the most conflict you had had with her in your eighteen years of life.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” You had said, trying to keep your voice level. You should have ended it there, although it wouldn’t have stopped her accusations. “But what I do know is that Jesus loves me regardless.”

As if in slow motion, your mother’s eyes had widened before narrowing even further. Her face had been pinched and tight, looking like a volcano on the verge of erupting. You had felt the waves of rage rolling off her like the fresh tide.

“Don’t you dare invoke His name when you’ve done such a disgusting thing,” She had spit at you, teeth clenched and locked.

Indignation had blossomed in your chest like a freshly planted seed. Courage that you had been lacking for eighteen years finally made its appearance, giving you the ability to respond.

“Jesus does love me, Mom. Why would Jesus become angry with me for bringing new life into this world just because it was before marriage?” You had said loudly. “Do you understand how ridiculous you sound?” Your tone had been sharp, edged and gleaming.

No one had breathed, no one had spoken, no one had moved.

It was then that she had said it, delivering it swiftly and making sure that it had packed a punch: 

“Leave.”

Your lips had parted, eyes round. Rhea was sitting on the floor at your feet, and she clamped onto your foot tightly. Her grip had been bone-crushing.

“What?” You had whispered. Your dad, who had been reclined in his chair, had elevated himself into an upright sitting position.

“You heard me. Leave. I don't want to see you come back. I can see now that somewhere along the way with you, I failed as a mother."

She said it with such conviction, such utter disappointment and hostility, that you felt that this wasn’t your mother anymore. If she had been your mother, she wouldn’t have stopped loving you, right? 

There was a ringing in your ears. Where were you going to go? How were you going to support yourself? What were you going to tell Josh?

Despite the flurry of panicked thoughts racing through your mind, you somehow found the ability to straighten your back. You held your mother’s stony gaze, observing her reddened face, her curved nose, the lines around her eyes.

This was the woman who was always right up against the chain-link fence at your softball games, cupping her hands around her mouth and screaming encouraging words at you. This was the same woman who held you when you fell off your bike in the sixth grade and hugged you until the pain went away. She looked the same, but something was wrong, like something inside of her had shattered.

After a painfully long pause, you slowly stood, hands flat at your sides. You could hear Rhea’s sharp intake of breath, and for the first time, you surveyed the room. Dad, who had remained silent this entire time, was looking at you so earnestly that you had to look away. David was also looking at you, concern and confusion clearly displayed on his face. Lastly, your eyes fell to Rhea, who had tears welling up in her clear, blue eyes. She was shaking her head at you, lower lip quivering, her grip on your foot numbing.

Sweet Rhea, who was only fifteen years old. Your baby sister. You always used to pretend that she was your baby, that you were her mommy. At the same time, you went to her with all of your secrets, and in turn, she came to you with all of hers. When she came to you that morning, voice raw from crying because she had gotten scared and taken a pregnancy test, you had locked your door, held her, smoothing her wavy hair down, and wondered how you were going to help her.

Her eyes were magnetizing, begging you not to do this. Imperceptibly, you nodded down at her, hoping that your expression gave her some comfort. It didn't matter that you weren't the one who was pregnant. It was the principle of the thing, and you knew you had to protect Rhea from being the one torn to pieces by your mother.

You turned back to your mother, whose gaze had dropped down to Rhea at your interaction. She quickly elevated her eyes back to you, analytical.

“You know what, Mom,” You began, your voice no longer containing any trace of frustration. You glanced up at the crucifix adorning the wall above her head. “You were right about one thing. You taught me that Jesus’ love would be the strongest love I’d ever receive.” You took a step forward, shoulders back, chin raised. “ So, I know that Jesus will always be there for me, even when you won’t be.”

You didn’t wait for a response before you strode to your room, flopped your suitcase onto your bed, and stuffed it with as many things as you could fit inside. Your hands were shaking, and you could hear your mother screaming in the living room. Your fingers accidentally knocked something off of your dresser in your hurry to pack. Turning, you saw your wooden rosary beads, the pair you had gotten for your First Communion.

You bent down and picked them up, the beads gentle and soft in your fingers; You stuffed them into a pocket of your suitcase.

            Striding back into the living room, your suitcase getting dragged behind you haphazardly, you brushed past your mother - who was in the middle of ranting to your father - and made a beeline to the front door.

“Jess.” A hand came down on your shoulder, making you turn in shock. David was leaning towards you, looking almost as surprised as you probably did.

“Come with me.” He said, making mom’s angry chatter cease. David lived a few towns over with his wife, and had been visiting for the weekend. You were startled, but your eyes landed on Rhea. You couldn’t leave her alone here.

“Rhea?” You said softly. You faintly hear your mother going on another tirade in the background about how Rhea is a child and can’t leave, but you watch Rhea get to her feet slowly.

“Rhea Marie.” Mom’s stern tone was directed at Rhea now. Mom knew Rhea was more likely to listen, as she was the youngest and most compliant of the three of us.

David put a hand on Rhea’s shoulder gently, pulling her into his side protectively.

“We’re going together.” You said to Mom. You hadn’t realized before, but Dad was now standing in front of his chair, looking across his three children with a watery expression.

Something tugged at your heart, and for a brief moment, you darted across the room and hugged your dad very tightly. “We’ll be okay. We’ll be back soon, I promise.” You whispered into his ear, breathing in his familiar Dad-smell of cologne and leather and cotton.

He kissed your cheek, and just as you began to pull away, you heard it: “I’m proud of you, Jess.”

It made your chest feel very full all of a sudden, but in the best way. You knew why he was saying it. You had gotten much comfort from your mother over the years, but you learned compassion and patience from your father.

You offered him a steady smile before turning around, grabbing your bag, and walking purposefully out the front door. You could hear it shut after a moment, and turned to see David and Rhea huddled together, looking at you.

David was holding Rhea's left hand, so I held out my free one encouragingly. She took it, her grip surprisingly firm and certain.

She offered a small smile. “Well, come on. We have a train to catch.”

Suitcase in your hand, the three of you headed off to the station.