She wore a cotton dress. She pulled jewelry, earrings tangled in necklaces, from the box that used to belong to your grandmother when she was young. She wore her favorite heels, the ones that made her feel fucking powerful. Tall and capable. And she said so.
“Tonight we’re going to meet your dad for dinner. I want you to get to know the man that you’re gonna grow up to look like. I want you to be able to recognize him if he walks by you on the street.”
She took a small, black pen, then started drawing in the makeup close to her eyes. And when she started to cry, she said “Jesus fucking Christ.”
We adjust enough to see a man of forty-three years old. He met you both near the door, guided you both to the bar, where it’s dark, where you’re told that this Harry.
“The man I met at seventeen. We had a lot in common. He told me he liked my eyes.”
The fight came after his second drink with dinner. Sometime before he left his seat, your mom told him to go to hell. He said she had no one to blame but herself. He agreed to meet the kid, not to change his life for him.
She still has eyeliner smeared high on her cheek, and she speaks, “Are you listening? In a life so full of mistakes, you may be the first one I made. I told that piece of shit man that he’d be a dad, and you wanna know what he said to me? He just kept saying, ‘I’m sorry’ and so I named you Apology.”
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