Just a Girl - Becky Monson Page 0,89

wait twenty-four hours to add a layer of clear protective finish, I sit crisscross applesauce in front of my cabinet. I still need to replace the glass, but for the most part, it’s done.

And it’s perfect. The outside still doesn’t match the inside, but now it’s even better. The ornate detail on the doors and the trim is stunning, the rich brown finish I chose make it look regal and like it needs to be in a place of honor.

I know exactly where I’ll put it because I’m definitely not selling it. This cabinet means too much to me. We’re connected, this piece of wood and me.

“It’s beautiful,” I hear my mom say. She’s standing behind me, looking at my cabinet. I’d heard her come in, felt the evening heat from the outside rush through the door when she opened it. But I didn’t say anything or move to look at her. I kept my eyes on my curio cabinet.

“Thank you,” I finally say.

I hear her let out a breath, and then I feel her move to my side, and in my peripheral vision I see her take a seat next to me on the ground, folding her legs under her.

We sit there in silence, both of us looking at the cabinet, the only noise in our space coming from the air-conditioning unit.

“I . . . I’m so sorry, Quinn,” she finally says.

I turn to look at her and give her a small smile. “I know,” I say. I reach over and grab her hand.

“I promise you, I had no idea I was hurting you with those books. I . . . I should have known.”

“I know your heart was in the right place,” I say, giving her hand a little squeeze.

Tears well in her eyes. She looks so vulnerable, so little like the mom she has always seemed to be. There are bags under her eyes and more wrinkles than I remember seeing before.

She sighs, reaching up and wiping the one tear that’s escaped down her cheek. “You know,” she says and sniffles, “us moms—we don’t really have a clue what we’re doing. We . . . we’re kind of just blindly trying to find our way around things. I was overweight when I was in high school, and all I knew was that it was hard. It was hard to live in a world where you were judged for your looks. So many of the things I did or didn’t do were based on my weight. I didn’t want that for you. I promise, I thought I was helping.”

“I know,” I say. “I understand, Mom. I promise I do. All I need for you to do from now on is just support me. And maybe that’s what you felt like you were doing.” She nods when I say this. “But I don’t need that kind of support from you. I need to know that you will love me, no matter what I look like.”

“Of course I do,” she says on a sob, the tears coming down fast now. “You’re gorgeous, Quinn, inside and out.”

I feel kind of gorgeous right now. Even with my hair in a messy bun, no makeup, and sawdust and wood stain all over me. I think I understand what they meant at the retreat about seizing the cupcake now, or at least I’m starting to get it. It’s all in the way you think of yourself. Finally finishing this curio cabinet after almost giving up makes me feel proud of myself. And I haven’t felt this way in a long time.

“Love you, Mom,” I say, looking back at her, tears rolling down both our faces.

“I promise, I was only trying to help,” she says.

“I know, I really do. Thank you for being my mom,” I say. I let go of her hand and put my arm around her, giving her a side hug.

Only trying to help. I know when my mom says it, she really means it. But when Moriarty said it the other day, she wasn’t really trying to help. Coming from her, it was more along the lines of someone saying “No offense” but then following that phrase up with something offensive.

“Oh,” I say out loud as the déjà vu feeling I’d had in front of the restaurant where Henry was having his last date washes over me again. But this time, I know where the feeling is coming from.

I sit up a little straighter. Could it be? It seems a little