Mothers

Twenty thousand dollars. That is what I am left with. Except it doesn’t have a pulse. It cannot talk to me. It cannot fill the void. Funny isn’t it? The old saying “Money talks?” Want to know what else talks, or well..used to talk? My mother.

Three weeks ago she died. That is the first time I actually admitted that. My therapist would be proud. I make a mental note to write that down in my black moleskin journal he gave me to note my thoughts so we can go over them in our next session. I trek my way down soho to my favorite coffee shop. My internal dialogue thriving.

What the fuck am I supposed to do with twenty thousand dollars? My mother and I were never close. When the insurance company called me, they told me my mother had left me as her beneficiary on her life insurance policy. Being that we never spoke, I was extremely caught off guard. Want to know the worst part? That’s how I found out she died. I pay the cashier for my venti macchiato and put some cash in the tip jar.

Twenty thousand. I can’t stop thinking about how many dinners out at a restaurant that would’ve been had we not stopped talking all those years ago. I sit down at an empty table and crack open my little black journal. The pages staring back at me are blank. I can’t help but envy the that. It seems like ever since this money came into my life my brain has not turned off.

I start jotting down all the crap I’m going to tell my therapist and take a sip of my coffee. I remember him telling me I have to decide what to do with the check. I roll my eyes recalling the conversation. “Hanging it on my refrigerator until the idea comes to me is not a realistic option.” At least, that’s what the shrink says.

As I sit there and wonder, this woman with three small children comes into the coffee shop. She has one kid, possibly a year old, on her hip, one kid in an old beaten up stroller, and her eldest kid holding her hand. She reaches the counter and orders steamed milk for the kids and nothing for herself. Kids screaming and pulling on her shirt.

When asked to pay she says “oh, Rob usually lets us get some hot milk on the house on Fridays..we don’t have any money.”

The girl behind the counter says, “I’m sorry ma’am, but Rob quit last Friday. I am going to have to ask you to pay.”

The mother turns around to her kids already half way through their milk and frowns.

Weirdly, I feel my feet moving toward her although I don’t remember closing my journal or getting up. I approach her and I say, “Here.” I hand her the check for $20,000. She looks at the amount and her jaw drops. “Miss, I cannot accept this.”

I look at her children, and back at her. I feel the pressure of my designer shoes on my heels. I feel my $500 blouse pressing against my skin. I look her in the eyes and say, “You are a mother. A wonderful one I see. I just lost my mother. This money cannot help me, but it can help you. They need you.”

She cries, I give her a tight squeeze, and I turn to grab my bag so I don’t cry. I leave the coffee shop with my thoughts finally clear. My purse somehow feels lighter without the check.

I make my way to the cemetery. Tears finally come.