How It Feels To Want

I’ll never be like her, I told myself as I threw my clothes into a garbage bag.  

I’ll never be like her, over and over, every step to the bus station.

I’ll never be like her, as I bought a one-way ticket for a place a few towns over, because no child should ever be hungry, should ever want, should ever feel emptiness gnawing at them the way I had. 

We were never poor, but I was. My mom took the money she made from her job and spent it on herself. She bought nice clothes from the shops in the mall; I got clothes from the thrift store, and when I was lucky, her hand-me-downs. She bought jewelry and make-up and a TV for the living room that she made me watch with her. She went out to eat at restaurants almost every night, sometimes leaving me with nothing to eat at all. I’d dig through the pantry for a box of crackers or, on good nights, a pack of ramen.  

Worse, she’d come home from her nights out and insist that I sit and listen to her talk about it.  She called it quality time. “Oh Cherrie,” she’d say, looking into the distance, “it was divine! The steak was cooked perfectly, I’ve never tasted something so tender. And the music! Live music, the guy on the guitar was so handsome.”  

A few times I tried to tell her I was hungry. Sometimes she ignored me, sometimes she said, “Well, I’d take you with me, darling, but you’re too young to appreciate the kind of food we eat. When you’re old enough, then I’ll take you.” 

I believed her. But 15 wasn’t old enough, nor 16, nor 17. At 16 I got my first job and hid my money. When she asked me where I was after school, I lied and told her I was with friends. I never even had friends in that lousy school with all those stuck-up kids. When I got home in the evenings, she often pouted at me, telling me how much she missed me when I wasn’t there. Every time she forced me to sit and listen to her stories, I’d work twice as hard the next day. At least I was able to buy food for myself. 

On the day I graduated high school, she came to the ceremony and clapped with all the other parents. She said she’d take me out for a celebration, and she did—we went to Wendy’s for lunch. She even bought me a Frosty. Not 2 hours later she said, “I’m going out tonight, don’t wait up!” I didn’t--that was the day with the garbage bag and the bus. I started in Indiana and ended up in Illinois.  

I had saved up enough money for a place to stay. It wasn’t glamorous, hell; it wasn’t even safe. But it was mine, I had food, and it was quiet enough when the neighbors weren’t fighting. I worked my way up through different jobs until I found one that would help me pay for community college, and I got an Associate’s. 

I got a raise at work to go with the degree, and on my third day in my new position, I met Thomas. He was quiet, like me, but brought this kind of spark into everything he did. He’d tell a joke under his breath, and I’d catch a glint in his eye, like the light inside of him needed to escape. It felt like I had never laughed until he made me laugh. 

We married and had a daughter, Grace. I remembered that day I left Indiana. I’ll never be like her, I promised the baby in my arms on the day we brought her home from the hospital. I gave her all the things I didn’t have—every material possession she could need or want, vacations, all the birthday parties I never had, and space to enjoy it all. We went out to eat every weekend as a family. Thomas would pretend to steal her food and wink at her and make her giggle; we had the world. 

When Grace was 13, Thomas went to the doctor thinking he had an ulcer that wouldn’t go away and was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. We were shocked—we were still young and the disease was much further progressed than we could have guessed. Because of the late diagnosis and the difficulty of treating the cancer, Thomas died just over a year later.  

It was like someone had sucked all the life out of the house. Thomas took the laughter with him and tucked it in his grave. I didn’t want to suffocate Grace with my grief; she had plenty of her own. I gave her his favorite sweater, and she wore it almost every day.  

After months of grieving, I was determined to move forward. Thomas was gone but I would make sure Grace had everything she needed. I bought her clothes and a TV and a computer. We didn’t go out to eat as often, but I ordered food for us. I tried to make holidays and birthdays feel extravagant. I never forced her to spend time with me; I spent most of my time alone and let her be an individual, and she grew into a smart young woman. 

The day my daughter graduated high school, I found her in her room packing a suitcase, the pink one I’d bought her with the matching overnight bag.

“What are you doing, Grace?” 

“I’m going to go spend some time with Angela and her parents for the summer,” she said, her back to me. 

“You didn’t tell me about this.” 

She shrugged, “It’s not a big deal. I’ll be moving out for college soon anyway.” 

“Not for a few months. You’re my daughter, you should have at least mentioned that you would be gone. What about our vacation?” 

“We’ve been on lots of cruises, Mom. I just want to spend some time with Angela before we end up at different colleges.” 

“But all your things are here” 

“Yes, Mom, YES! All my THINGS are here!” she turned around, throwing her hands up in the air. “All I have are things!” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It means I don’t care about these things, and I want to spend summer with my friend, okay?” She picked up her favorite dress and put it in her suitcase.  

“I don’t understand why you’re suddenly upset and want to leave so badly.” It reminded me of myself, but I had a good reason to leave. What reason could she have? “What have I ever done but take care of you?” 

“Take care of me?” She turned again, her eyes wide. “Yeah, you know what, you have taken care of me. You gave me everything I needed and now I’m all set to go into the world. And that’s what I’m doing, I’m going out into the world.” 

“I did take care of you, I did give you everything you needed,” I could hear my voice rising, and I struggled to keep it even. “And then some. In addition to food in your stomach and clothes on your back—good clothes! Fashionable clothes!—I took you on vacations and threw a huge Sweet 16 for you and all your friends!” The world ungrateful ran through my head, but it felt like a weapon, and I didn’t want to hurt her. 

“Oh, my birthday party? That’s actually a great example. I didn’t want a birthday party, Mom. I never asked for that. The idea of celebrating my birthday without Dad was so sad to me, but did you ask? Did you even consider what I wanted?” 

“Of course I did! I asked you what food you wanted and what dress you wanted to wear and who to invite!” 

“And when you asked me those questions, do you remember what I told you?” 

Of course I did. I’d made the checklist and called the vendors. “Italian catering, the sparkly blue one, and all of your friends plus your cousins,” I rattled off, ticking them on my fingers. 

“No, Mom, that’s not what I said. That’s what you said. I said, ‘I don’t care.’ To every question you asked.” 

Wait, had she? That couldn’t be right; where would I have gotten those ideas? 

“And every time I said I didn’t care, you said, ‘What about this?’ and ‘What about that?’ and then you just did it.” 

“Okay, I’m sorry that I didn’t make your birthday exactly what you wanted, but that’s one thing!” 

“No, Mom, it’s everything. Dad and I were close; you and I never were.” 

That seemed unfair. I knew she and her dad were close, but I was always there too. It’s not like he was a single parent.  

“I’ve always been right here.” 

“No, since Dad died, you’ve spent 90% of your time in your room. When I came to you for comfort, you’d give me a hug and send me away again. Or worse, you’d buy me something. These earrings?” She picked up a pair of gold and turquoise earrings off the bed and dangled them between us. “These are sorry-your-dad-died earrings. And the computer. And three of my purses. I didn’t ask for any of those things.” She tossed the earrings back on the bed and zipped up her suitcase. “All I really needed was a mom, but they don’t sell those on Amazon, I guess.” 

A horn honked outside, and Grace grabbed her suitcase, purse, and laptop and pushed past me toward the stairs.  

“Grace! I was just trying to give you your space! I was grieving too; I didn’t want to make you sadder. I didn’t want to force myself into your life!” 

At the bottom of the stairs, she looked up at me, “Well congratulations, Mom. You didn’t--you just forced me out of yours.” She walked out the door and slammed it behind her.  

I sat on the top step, too shocked to feel. I pictured her in Angela’s car, complaining about me. How long had she been planning to leave? I pictured Grace turning to her friend and saying, “I’ll never be like her.” 

I put my head in my hands and cried.