Futility

I was back at my mom’s house by 8:00. She was in the living room, watching a Cheers rerun.  “Everything all right?” she asked.

“Fine."  

She followed me into the spare room. When I pulled out my bag, she asked, “What are you doing?” 

“I'm going back to Chicago."

“When did you decide this?"

“Tonight.”  

I stuffed my few personal items into the bag and headed back to the living room. 

“Maybe you should think about it some more," my mother said, tripping on my heels. "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."

 “Angie, 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 despised. But sometimes who you are sneaks up on you so surreptitiously that by the time it overtakes you, there is no will left to change. 

I took a stack of bills from my wallet and set it on the end table. “Thank you for everything."

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