Word Count: 1646

“How would you feel if I moved back here?”

From the age of ten, there were very few days out of the year that Paris would consent to see his mother. His birthday was the first of those yearly occasions and the day after Christmas was the last, with a few other dates cast sporadically in-between. Mother’s Day was, perhaps, one of the most important, as it was one of the rare chances he’d allowed his mother to actually be—or try to be—a mother.

It went without saying that he’d seen her more often over the last month and a half than he had in the last handful of years. Paris supposed this wasn’t very surprising when one considered what had happened at the beginning of April. Together they’d been left to pick up the scattered pieces of a life his father has left behind. They’d cleaned out the house, sorted through his father’s things, worked on selling off the shop, all with an understanding and a closeness between them that had not been there since Paris had been much younger.

He’d taken the initial steps in forgiving her months ago, over Christmas when he’d realized his anger and bitterness weren’t nearly as strong as they used to be, when he’d learned to understand, because he’d known then that nothing in life could even be so simple.

But even at that point, he never would have imagined he’d need her as much as he’d come to need her now. He might never admit it to anyone else, certainly not to her, but he could admit it to himself. He needed his mother. He needed to know that she was still there for him—maybe not always physically present, but still there in his life, in whatever way the two of them could manage across the distance that came between them upon her regular flights back to New York.

This Mother’s Day was spent at the Gallo’s beach… place. It was not a condo as Paris had expected, nor was it a house because no house should ever be that big, but it was a place and a very nice one, and it was on the beach, and he and Chris had come for the weekend with Peter and both of their mothers—a brief family trip before a second vacation with friends. The morning passed at Mass in a little church a few miles from their current residence, followed by brunch at a quaint café. Upon returning, Paris had agreed to a stroll along the shore with his mother. Marissa had left her shoes behind, but Paris carried his flats with him, his fingers crooked into the back of the heels as they ambled along the sand. Neither of them had changed from their Sunday clothes—Marissa in cerulean, Paris in lilac.

His mother’s question diverted Paris from his search for shells, and he looked to her in mild surprise.

Marissa was not looking directly at him, but she stole quick glances every few moments, in-between inspecting the sand and glancing out over the water. She looked cautious but determined. Occasionally she would lift a hand to tuck a lock of hair behind one of her ears, then compulsively smooth her palms over her stomach through the loose waist of her dress, as if something so simple could possibly settle it along with her nerves.

“To the beach?” Paris wondered, once he’d given her question some thought.

She smiled, laughed softly, and shook her head. “No, not here. I meant back in state. Back to Destiny City.”

Paris stared at her, trying to gauge how serious she was about the idea. “What about work?” he asked.

“What about it?” she questioned him in return.

“Don’t you have a cushy job in New York?”

His mother laughed again, and turned to him with an amused sort of fondness. “Baby, do you even know what I do?”

Paris shrugged, glancing out over the ocean, at the waves that washed up onto the shore to dampen the sand and briefly submerge their feet. “Well, I’ve been telling people that you’re a secretary for some hot-shot lawyer,” he admitted, “but I figure that’s not true, is it?”

Marissa released another quiet laugh but didn’t seem insulted by the presumption at all. “No, that’s not true,” she agreed.

“So you’re a lawyer?”

“A family lawyer.”

Paris turned his head to watch her as she walked beside him. His stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch, turning in on itself and twisting around in a sickening fashion. He placed his hands over it the way she did but found that his assumption was correct. It didn’t help at all.

He frowned sadly. “So… what? You help people get divorced?” he asked, then, “That’s really sad, Mom.”

Her eyes widened, full of worry and a distant sort of hurt. “No!” she insisted, her voice firm enough to be adamant but soft enough to be reassuring. “No, Baby, that’s not what I do. I help people adopt.”

There was a sudden wave of relief, and a piece of Paris that had been about to break from sadness instantly healed over.

“Oh,” he said. He took a breath of salty sea air and let it out slowly. “Well, that’s… that’s actually sort of nice.”

For a little while they were silent. Paris let the tension seep from his shoulders and back. He looked out over the water again, listened to the ebb and flow of the waves, the cries of the gulls, the smattering of noise from the other families who’d taken to the beach for the weekend. It was peaceful here. Paris was at peace here, in a way he never was in the crowded city, with its tall buildings like the bars of a cage and the monsters that lurked in the shadows.

This place… it was a sort of heaven. If there weren’t people waiting for him at home, if he didn’t have so many responsibilities, he’d stay here forever, happily—with Chris, with Momma Gallo, with Peter. Even with his own mother.

“So you’d get an apartment?” he asked when the silence had drawn out too long.

“Or look for a house,” his mother said.

Paris didn’t ask why she didn’t just move back into their old house. He already knew the answer. It was his father’s house, not hers. Maybe it had been hers, too, at one time, but not anymore. She’d left it behind with everything else. There were probably too many memories there for her now. There were for him. Returning to it would only be painful.

“And you can work here?” he wondered instead.

“Of course.”

“And you’re not… you’re not doing it because of me, are you? Because of what happened…?”

Paris glanced at his mother and Marissa caught his eyes with her own. They shared a dismal look, full of longing and regret.

“Not entirely,” she said. “I’m doing it for me, too. I’ve missed eight years, Baby. I didn’t get to be there for you the way I wanted to be. I didn’t get to protect you the way I used to. I don’t want that anymore. I don’t want to miss anything else.”

“Would you still have come back if… if Dad was still here…?” Paris asked slowly. He wondered if he even wanted to hear the answer, as he did with many of the questions he’d asked her recently, or if he’d only be disappointed by it.

“Yes,” she said after a pause. “This isn’t something I just thought of in the last month. I’ve been wanting to for a while now. Years, really, but you were so angry before. I didn’t want to make things worse. And after Christmas… I thought it might be better. I thought it would be good for us. I just… after your father… I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about it.”

Paris took a few moments to think. He could remember, when she’d first left, how many months he’d spent hoping she’d return to him, to his father. With every phone call he’d found himself wondering “Is she going to come back now? Is Mommy going to come home?” After a while he’d been forced to admit that it wasn’t to be. Then he had been angry, and betrayed, and so hurt. That sense of abandonment had stayed with him for a long, long time. He hadn’t felt good enough—not for his mother, not for his father, and not for anyone else.

He knew better now. Or part of him did. There was still a tiny piece of that little boy left inside of him, but that voice was slowly fading, drifting back into his subconscious where it may one day lie to rest. Hopefully forever.

“I think… if you want to…” he began, “…I’d like it if you did… as long as it’s not because of… because of Dad…”

His mother smiled, overjoyed, though a tiny shred of sadness remained beneath it.

“But I’m gonna stay with Chris,” Paris made sure to announce.

“That’s fine,” Marissa quickly agreed. “You’re an adult now. You can decide where you want to live.”

Paris nodded. Having her back in town would be change enough. Living with her again… he wasn’t sure he could do that so quickly, if at all.

Seconds later, his mother reached for Paris’s hand. Paris let her take it, and squeezed back lightly.

“I’m sorry, Paris,” she said.

Paris didn’t bother to ask what she was sorry for. He had a pretty good feeling he already knew. Instead he turned to her and showed her a watery smile. “I know, Mom. It’s okay…”

And for once it felt like the truth.

Together they turned to make their way back to the beach house, wandering through the damp sand under a bright sun, hand-in-hand.