She’s crying right now. “I know this is going to sound terrible, but I guess because I wasted so much of my twenties chasing things that I shouldn’t have been chasing, that I was trying to prevent you from wasting your time and doing the same.”
“I should have known from the time that you were seven, when you cried for hours on Christmas because I’d bought you a Barbie instead of another deluxe paint set that you were way different from the girl I was.” More tears fall down her face. “I’m sorry I missed all of your art shows in high school. I’m sorry I didn’t support you when you told me you wanted to go to Western Peak. And I’m sorry you felt like you could never pursue your dreams when you were around me.”
“Mom...” I feel a lump rising up my throat.
“Let me finish, Mia,” she says. “I don’t want to spend another ten Christmases without you coming home. I don’t want all our phone conversations to immediately turn to arguments anymore. I’m willing to change and be the mother I should have been to you for the rest of your life, if you just give me a chance.” She lets go of my hands and wipes my tears away. “I know I was terrible, Mia, but I love you and I want a second chance. Are you willing to give me one?”
I don’t answer. I just cry.
She pulls me into her arms and hugs me for the first time in over a decade. Unlike all the times before when I was in high school, I don’t count backwards from five to pull away, and I don’t make a move to pull away at all. I hug her back and cry even harder, feeling that every word she said was absolutely sincere.
The two of us stand like that for at least half an hour, with her repeatedly telling me that she’s sorry and that she loves me and that she really is determined to show me what a real mother/daughter relationship should be like. When we finally do pull away from each other, both of our faces are red and tear-stained and it’s as if we both realized just how much time we’ve wasted.
“Let’s not waste anymore.” She says.
Stepping back and picking up the glossy brochures that I created for tonight, she smiles. “Tell me what I need to do to help you for your first show.”
***
Several hours later, my mom is organizing the cheese and fruit tray that’s at the back of the space, Autumn and Jacob are giving the floor one final sweep, and Michelle is walking around the room taking notes on all of my pieces—nodding her head in absolute admiration.
I slip away from everyone to get dressed in the bathroom, quickly stepping into a simple black dress and dark grey heels. I pull my hair into a sleek bun on top of my head and I take my time doing my make-up, making sure it’s noticeable, but not too heavy.
When I’m done, my eye-lids are covered in a light pink, my lips are coated in a thin layer of soft red, and there’s bronze blush on my cheeks.
I stare at my reflection for a little while longer, feeling extremely nervous about what all the guests might think about my collection tonight. I purposely didn’t tell any of them that I’m the creator behind the pictures just so that I could get their true and honest reaction.
“Mia?” Autumn calls from the other side of the door. “Mia, your former boss is saying that it’s time to open the door. Are you ready?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer, she comes inside instead. “You’re going to do great tonight. All of the pieces are amazing and you’re going to sell out of each and every one.” She puts her hands on my shoulders. “And you are not going to think about he who shall not be named for this entire event. Are we clear?”
“Who is he who shall not be named?”
“Dean.” She rolls her eyes. “Just don’t think about Dean.”
Without giving me a chance to say something else, she opens the door and pulls me inside of the gallery. The show has already begun, and I smile at how quickly the room is filling up. I mingle with the guests, serve wine and cheese whenever I can and listen in on bits of critiques whenever they may float by.
As I’m adjusting my very first portrait of Seattle’s waterfront, a woman in a blue dress walks up to me. “Do you know if this is going to be this artist’s only show for the year?” she asks.
“I’m not sure yet, why?”
“Because I was interested in purchasing the piece you’re looking at right now.”
“Oh! Well, all you have to do is go to the curator and she’ll tell you the price of it and you can purchase it if you’re still interested.”
“No, no, no,” she says, laughing. “I think you’ve misunderstood me. I was very interested in purchasing this piece, just like I was very interested in purchasing the piece right next to it, but someone has already bought everything and there’s nothing left.”