For years, every time I made plans to visit my mom, she had a new excuse ready. Eventually, I grew tired of the distance—and the silence. So, without calling ahead, I packed a bag and showed up at her door. What I found inside shattered me.
My mother and I were never what you’d call close.
Not like the moms and daughters you see in movies, swapping stories over coffee or chatting daily about everything and nothing. We stayed in touch, sure—holiday phone calls, birthday cards, the occasional book in the mail. I always thanked her, even if I didn’t get around to reading it.
When I moved out of state for work, I expected our relationship would become even more strained. But honestly, nothing really changed. We’d always had that quiet gap between us.
Still, I missed her. Or maybe I missed the version of us we never got to be.
I made efforts to close the gap.
“Mom, I’m thinking of coming to visit next month,” I offered one spring. “It’s been too long.”
“Oh sweetheart, I’ll be away at a church retreat,” she said.
Later, I tried again.
“I’ll cook for us. Just a few days. I’d love to come.”
She chuckled. “Oh no, honey. I promised Carol I’d help with her art show.”
“I miss you. What about next weekend?”
“I’ll be in Arizona visiting an old friend,” she replied. “Maybe another time?”
Always something. Always somewhere else to be.
Eventually, I stopped asking.
But I never stopped wondering—why? Why was she avoiding me? What could be so difficult about spending a weekend together?
One night, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. I stared at the ceiling in the dark, heart restless, and decided: no more waiting. I booked a flight. I wasn’t calling ahead. I was just going to show up.
Her house looked the same.
The white fence. The porch swing. The flower beds, once carefully tended, now wild and forgotten.
I dragged my suitcase up the steps, my hand trembling as I reached for the doorknob. She never locked it. She never had. I wasn’t sure if that was habit or denial that the world had changed.
The door creaked open.
Lemon and dust. The scent of my childhood.
I stepped inside—and froze.
There, in the kitchen, stood a girl.
Thin. Quiet. Long dark hair. The sleeves of her sweatshirt swallowed her hands as she fidgeted nervously. She looked up at me—and something inside me cracked wide open.
She didn’t just resemble me.
She was me. Or at least… she looked exactly the way I had looked at fifteen.
Same tilt of the eyes. Same uncertain mouth. Same way her fingers wouldn’t sit still.
And in that moment, I knew: my mother had been hiding more than distance.