Gone

I was back at my mom’s house by 10:00.  Hal still seemed to be out, but my mom was awake, watching a Cheers rerun.  “Everything all right?” she asked me.

“Fine,” I said, and headed into the extra room.  She must have realized something was up, because she followed me.  “What are you doing?” she asked.

“I'm going back to Chicago.”

“When did you decide this?”

“Tonight.”  I stuffed the rest of my clothes into the bag and zipped it up.  I'd brought so little with me--as if a part of me had always known I wouldn't be staying long.  “Maybe you should think about it some more,” my mom said, now following me into the living room.  “It’s not the kind of decision you want to make on the spur of the moment.”

“I’m sorry, but I have to go tonight.”

“Angie,” she said, and my name sounded wrong coming from her—she so rarely used it.  “Please, learn by my mistakes.  Don't make everything I went through worthless.  Make it count somehow.”

That was a nice sentiment.  And when I was a kid I’d sworn I would never turn out like her—that I would never allow a man to make me into something I could not respect.  But sometimes who you are sneaks up on you so surreptitiously that by the time it overtakes you, there is no more will, or opportunity, left to change.  “Thank you for everything,” I told her.

My mother lowered her head.  I left without another word.