After I Met You

27

The white building in front of me doesn't seem as intimidating as the first time. Maybe that's because I'm finally ready to do this by myself, or maybe it's because I'm just so fed up with being sad that I can't even focus on being scared anymore, all I do know is that I need to get this over with.

Letting out a huge breath, I step inside the rehab center and head over to the front desk. Everything seems so white in here, and a part of me wonders if this is what Xavier experienced when he was in rehab too.

"How can I help you?" The neatly dressed blonde sends me a smile as her manicured nails hover above the keyboard.

Here goes nothing.

"I'm here to see my, um... mom." I gulp. "Daniela Garcia."

"Sure." She replies. "Just one moment."

Typing away quickly on her keyboard, she inputs something before she grabs the phone beside her desk and lets someone know I'm here.

"Someone will be right down to get you." She says. "If you'd like, there's chairs over there to the left for you to wait."

I nod and plop down into one of the white leather chairs, my palms beginning to sweat as my heart rate picks up speed. I haven't seen her in years. The last time I remember seeing her was when she was passed out on the kitchen floor from an overdose. A few hours later the cops showed up and took me away. She was so out of it that it didn't even bother her. Her own child being taken away didn't matter.

I blink away tears and stare down at my shaking fingers. I don't know why I'm so nervous to see her. She shouldn't be this important to me. I wasn't shit to her, so she shouldn't mean shit to me. Right? Why is it that I care so much?

I put a stupid dress on that feels itchy against my skin, and I spent way too long doing my makeup. I don't know why I'm trying to impress her. It all seems so stupid now.

"Ms. Garcia?"

I turn around to see a woman holding a clipboard, her red curly hair bouncing in all different directions. She waves me over to her and begins to lead me down the white hallway, inputting a code into a machine that unlocks the doors for us.

"Your mother is very excited to see you." She tells me. "She's talked about you non-stop since she's been here."

"How long has she been sober for?" I ask. I don't mean to be rude, but after all the pain she's caused me she doesn't deserve to talk about me.

"Your mother completed an outpatient program prior to coming to us." She explains. "She was there for six months. We are classified as a halfway house, so our goal is to provide whatever means necessary to help them in the process of recovery. Whether that's to get them back on their feet, figure out how to function again in society, and deal with rekindling relationships."

"Got it." I nod as we turn another corner. "And how long will she be here?"

"Typically about a year." She replies. "I understand if you're nervous or reluctant, many people are, but just know that it's important to keep an open mind."

Aren't halfway houses supposed to be more laid back than this? It still seems like we're in a rehabilitation facility, but before I'm able to question her further she stops outside of a door. Suddenly I can't find the room to breathe.