Take A Risk Peyton |gxg|?

Kris

As the door slams shut behind Reese, the silence in the trailer becomes deafening. I sink to the floor, my back against the wall, and pull my knees to my chest.

The anger that fueled me moments ago dissipates, leaving behind a hollowness that threatens to swallow me whole. Again.

My eyes drift to Mom's favorite armchair in the corner. It's draped with her old quilt, the one she always wrapped around herself during our movie nights when Nana was still here, when Dad was still here.

I can almost see her sitting there, smiling at me with that look that always made everything feel okay even when we were living in a little trailer with little room and surviving on food we could afford.

But she's not there. She'll never sit in that chair again.

A fresh wave of pain crashes over me, and I curl into myself, trying to hold back the sobs that threaten to break free.

I might be delusional because she hasn't been here in ages but I swear the scent of her perfume still lingers in the air, a ghost of her presence that both comforts and torments me.

I reach for my phone, my fingers hovering over Mom's number in my contacts.

For a split second, I forget she stopped using the phone months ago, I forget she's gone, and I almost press call. The realization hits me like a slap to my face and I throw the phone across the room with a strangled cry.

Time blurs. I don't know how long I sit there, lost in a haze of memories and regret. The sun sets and I know I should get up, I should eat something, I should do anything, but I can't find the energy to move.

Mom's voice echoes in my head. "Promise me you won't forget to take care of yourself, too."

Guilt gnaws at me. I'm already breaking my promise to her.

I force myself to stand, my body aching from sitting too long. I stumble to the kitchen, opening the fridge. The sight of leftover lasagna --- a gift from Sawyer's Mom -- is now spoiled.

I slam the fridge shut, my appetite vanishing.

Instead, I find myself drawn to Mom's little room. I hesitate at the door, my hand trembling on the knob. I haven't been able to go in since...since it happened.

Taking a deep breath, I push the door open. The sight hits me immediately. It's like she's right there, and for a moment, I can pretend nothing's changed.

Reality crashes back as I take in the room. I haven't opened this room since she got admitted to the clinic. And despite the trailer being small, I have managed to limit my movements from my room to the kitchen/ living room.

There was no need to come in here until now.

Her reading glasses still sit on the nightstand, a half-finished novel beside them that had now collected dust. The walls are covered with photos - snapshots of our little family. My eyes land on one of us at my graduation in Seventh grade, right before Dad got arrested.

"I miss you," I whisper, my voice breaking. "I don't know how to do this without you."

I curl up on her bed, hugging her pillow close.  I don't mind the dust that will make me sick. I just want to feel like she is here again.

Tears that I've been holding back for days finally break free. I cry.

For Mom, for the future we'll never have, for the words left unsaid. I cry for pushing Reese away, for the mess I've made of everything.

As exhaustion finally overtakes me, I drift into a fitful sleep. In my dreams, Mom is there, healthy and vibrant and so is grandma and Dad.

Mom is in the kitchen, humming as she cooks, turning to me with that warm smile. I try to reach her, to tell her how much I love her, how sorry I am for all the times I let her down. But no matter how fast I run, she always stays just out of reach.

I wake up disoriented. For a moment, I think it was all a bad dream. Then reality settles back in, heavy and suffocating.

The morning light filters through the curtains, illuminating the dust floating in the air. I can almost hear Mom's voice, gently chiding me about the state of the trailer.

"A clean home is a happy home, sweetheart."

The memory brings a tiny smile to my lips, quickly replaced by a fresh wave of grief. But something has changed. The pain is still there, raw and throbbing, but alongside it is a flicker of her strength, her resilience.

I sit up slowly, running a hand through my tangled hair. My eyes settle on a framed photo on top of the novel--like the one I forbade Reese from seeing, Mom and Dad, smiling with me as a baby in their arms.

"Okay, Mom," I murmur, my voice hoarse from crying. "I hear you."

It's not much, but it's a start. I know the road ahead is long and painful, but I owe it to her -- and to myself and Reese -- to keep going. To live, just like she asked me to.

With trembling fingers, I reach for my phone. There are dozens of missed calls and messages, most from Reese. Guilt and regret washes over me, remembering our fight.

I take a deep breath and type out a message to

Me: I'm sorry. Can we talk?

It's a small step, but it feels monumental. As I hit send, I can almost feel Mom's hand on my shoulder, giving me a reassuring squeeze.

The grief won't go away, but for the first time in two weeks, I feel like there's hope.

It won't be easy. The pain won't magically disappear, and I have a lot to make up for. But as I look around Mom's room, at the life she lived and the love she gave, I make a silent promise to her and to myself: I'll try to live, Mom.

And maybe, just maybe, that's enough for a start.

***

Grief sucks.