Winter Love (Book Two)

31 | Impromptu Party

SAMI'S POV

The preparations for the impromptu Christmas party had taken a turn for the worse.

My mother and I had left Jesse and his mother, along with Zoe at the hospital after her shift had ended. We'd driven to the local supermarket - which by the way, is a place I'd always avoided going to with my mom because she somehow knew every second person we'd come across. What was supposed to be an hour's journey tops had taken two and a half! And by the time we got home, I dragged myself to my bedroom, collapsing on my bed at the sight of it and dozed off, consumed by an intense slumber, the frigid nature of that dreadful cabin a distant memory.

But like most good things, it ended way too soon. My mom woke me up at six in the morning to start with the food preparations. Her roast brisket had already been in the oven at that point, and we only had the 'sides and dessert' to prepare. Turns out, we still had potato salad, corn salsa, Mac and cheese, her homemade eggnog and butt loads of other things to make, not counting her apple tarts and her gingerbread cookies.

And as the clock struck ten, my knees felt wobbly. The shirt clung to my body uncomfortably. The shower I'd taken just twenty minutes before had proven futile. The lace number I had underneath also did nothing to alleviate my discomfort. But the sheer thought of Jesse's face when he sees this, does something to me...

"Samuel, no lounging around!" my mom says, rounding the corner quickly with what I can only to be some kind of butternut concoction. "The guests will be here at eleven."

A groan slips past my lips as I tread clumsily behind her, walking into the kitchen: "I didn't know our kitchen was this small."

She eyes me, "It isn't. There's just too much stuff."

I groan once again, regretting ever suggesting the party to begin with. The guest list had expanded overnight, with Felix, Beau, Colby and his girlfriend Irene coming back as they saw no need of staying at the Cabins any longer. Rose and Miguel were also tagging along, not that I could ever deny spending time with the short and feisty lady. Oh and how can I forget, Steve, mom's boyfriend, was also coming.

I go back to cutting cutouts of the mini gingerbread men, laying them on the sheet tray, right as my mother starts: "You know I wanted to talk to you yesterday about..." she sighs, "...Your note."

My blood runs cold. It had completely slipped my mind, but judging from the sad expression that she wears, accompanied by the halting of her rapid actions in the kitchen, she clearly hadn't forgotten. "I'm so so sorry" she starts, the firmness she exuded just a few moments ago having dissipated. "I'm sorry if I made you feel like you had to deal with your mental struggles on your own, for pushing you away. For spending so much time out of the house with Steve, I really am."

There are many words I'd use to describe my mother. Fierce. Smart. Funny. Extroverted. Caring. But under no circumstances would I ever consider my mother a crier. Throughout my life, at least the few moments I can recall, there are only a handful of times where I've actually seen my mother shed a tear. And standing in front of her in this kitchen, the smell of ginger and nutmeg wafting throughout the house, with tears in her eyes, reality dawns on me on how much all of this has rocked her.

"Mom," I say, walking around the table to embrace the woman who was my very first best friend, and quite frankly - still is.

"It's just..." she sniffs, "I need to reassure you that I'm here. If you ever need someone to talk to, I'm here. You're my baby. You can never be a bother to me because you're my child! I need you to understand that!"

"I do, and I'm sorry for not confiding in you a little more..." I stop, drawing in a breath, a pang of sadness hitting me hard as the next words flow out of my mouth, "...at least not like before. It's just that, there seems to be this voice in my head, that isn't mine, that puts me down and forces my eyes to the worst case scenarios - which are usually not true. When I'm in a mood, and that voice strikes, I just can't control it. It scares me sometimes, how much of a stronghold it has on my life."

"It scares me too, baby" she coos, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder, "I work at a hospital, I know how bad mental health issues can get. That's why I need you to make me a promise, when all of the festivities are over, and we get into the new year, I want you to start going to therapy."

I go rigid for a moment, contemplating whether or not that's the best we can do. But before I could ponder over my response any longer, she adds: "It'll be great for you! You'll be able to talk to a qualified professional not only about what's been happening now, but things that have bothered you for a while, like the situation with your father..." she stops abruptly, her eyes diverting to the floor.

Now with the many skills that my mother possesses, the one that she's always unfortunately lacked is the skill to lie, especially to me. I could peak right through her guarded veil of secrecy, and I'd know that she's hiding something from me.

"Mom, what's happening?"

"Nothing" she says way too quickly, "you need to add more molasses..."

"Mom" I call, with a tad bit more firmness, which probably sounded like I'm constipated.

"Okay fine" she huffs, "he called. Said he wants you to move in with him next year. It'd be great. It's summer all year round up there apparently. And you know, you've always loved your dad so go to therapy, patch up what you can patch up and...yeah" she rambled.

The audacity of that man!

"No" I answer simply, releasing her from my hold and tending back to my duties with rejuvenated energy towards the never ending tasks.

"What?"

"I said no" I answer simply. "When he left me at my grandparents' front porch, it was because I didn't fit into his idea of a 'perfect family'. Now, after all these years he's gonna rock up and do this? No. I won't allow it" I state defiantly, not an ounce of doubt nor resolve in my bold statement. "I'd rather stay here and freeze my balls off because I know that I have a real family here. You. And yes, I'll go to therapy, but not for him or for anybody else. He can continue tending to his step-father duties because I want nothing to do with him."

A proud smile breaks onto her face, an obvious sign that my little speech needn't be validated with a verbal response because she clearly understands my point. But with that smile, a sense of relief washes over her features. Clearly she hadn't taken my father's request very well, she'd possibly been shaken, devastated by the news, but she'd been kind enough to pass the message. Inasmuch as the thought of me leaving her would've certainly hurt, as much as it hurts me thinking about leaving her behind, she still decided to be honest with me. Even when she could've sat on top of this, kept it hidden from me, which would've surely created a rift between us at some point - she didn't. She'd been honest.

And maybe this is what I need to do. Be more like my mother. Be honest with her. More trusting. Like old times. Not that it'll be easy. Not that it'll be a breeze or a walk in the park. It'll certainly take a toll. Eat away at me and leave me bare, vulnerable, but I must learn to understand that I, unlike many, am privileged enough to be surrounded by people who actually give a damn. People who truly care. And I can't be more thankful. Yes, I can acknowledge that it won't be easy, but it'll work out in the end. It has to work out.

Everything will be just fine.