When I finally get back to the house, ignoring an irritated glare from my mom, I can feel my bitterness starting to slip away. As much as I want to, I know I won’t be able to despise my new home forever. Day by day it will grow on me until I feel at home in the quiet little town. Day by day. I laugh. It’s already beginning to feel more normal.
Sitting down at the kitchen table, I take the strawberries out of the grocery bag and begin slicing them. Their sweet smell fills the kitchen. I can’t help popping one into my mouth. Sugary bliss swims over my taste buds. It is possibly the best strawberry I have ever tasted. My mom has always complained about store bought produce. She misses the homegrown fruits and vegetables she grew up on. I used to think she was just complaining because she didn’t like the city. Now I have to admit she is right.
I sit listening to my mom hum as she turns pancake after pancake. I smile as the pancake stack grows higher and higher. The fluffy tower makes me think of my brother David. He is only one person, but the family’s food consumption has dropped significantly since he moved into his own apartment just before we left Manhattan. My mom still has not gotten used to the change. She even has to put back the extra plate when she begins setting the table and serving the food.
Thoughts of David not being here dulls whatever small bit of contentment I had found earlier.
Despite the allure of the special meal, I just stare at the strawberry covered pancakes, absently mashing them with my fork. My mom keeps glancing over at me with an anxious look, but my funk has settled in again. Strawberries and pancakes are my favorite breakfast food, but I hardly touch the meal. Knowing my mom made the meal especially to cheer me up, plus the staring, eventually wins out. I take a bite with a faint smile.
“Well, I know you wanted to work on your own room again today, but I could really use your help sorting photos. Those movers did an awful job of packing. The album pages have all fallen out and the photos are just in piles at the bottom of the boxes. It will take me forever by myself,” my mom says with a smile after seeing me spoon the food into my mouth.
“Yeah, sure, Mom, I can help,” I say.
My enthusiasm is miles short of genuine, but my mom ignores it. I know she could sort the photos much more quickly on her own, but she probably just doesn’t want me spending another sulky day alone in my room. I have been “arranging” it since we got here. And so far nothing has actually moved. My mom’s obvious plan to speed my progression towards well-adjusted and happy annoys me considerably, but her sigh of relief and pleased smile mellows my irritation.
Taking another forced bite before pushing the plate away, I say, “I’ll go get started,” and leave the table. I see my mom’s smile twitch a little as I get up, but I keep moving. She sighs disappointedly as I leave the kitchen.