So today for Mother's Day I think I’m going to write a little story about love, or rather, the prospect of love. I’ve retold this story a number of time to friends with ailing hearts, and they all seemed to like it, so I figured I’d get it out here for the rest of the world to see.
In February of my senior year in high school, I went through a pretty bad breakup. I had been dating this guy for about 16 months and in the last few of those months things got a little, well…rocky. And when I say this, I mean it was pretty much a living hell. I wasn’t sleeping, I wasn’t eating; nothing seemed to be right with me. I often came to school and lived my life like a zombie, going through phases of silence, then crying at the lunch table, and then back to quiet and secluded. I had become very different from my former self before this relationship, and I was what I could now easily consider a miserable human being. Not the way any teenage girl would want to carry out her senior year of high school, but hey, I was young and I thought I was in love. I didn’t know any better.
Regardless, the long-anticipated division finally came. The drug use had become the last straw, and far too many four letter words had come out and they couldn’t be taken back. Though this relationship means little to me now, it was my life at that point back then, and when we finally did call it quits, I was a mess. I had never experienced a breakup like this before and I couldn’t handle myself. I needed desperately for someone, anyone to be there, but I had distanced myself so much from everyone I once held so close because of this relationship. I had little to confide in, much less distract myself with. Unfortunately my sister was away at college, so try as she might with text messages and AIM conversations, she just couldn’t be there physically as much as I needed someone to be. My dad tried to help me saying, “Don’t worry, you did the right thing,” but I feel like any father would say that to his daughter solely on the principle of not wanting them to date anything not hand-picked by God.
This is what really got to me.
One day shortly after the breakup, I was sitting on my bed and I began to cry, as I think anyone who just got out of a long-term relationship would be prone to do. That day, however, was awful. I can’t remember why, but I remember thinking to myself that this must be the most horrible thing I’ve ever had to go through because that afternoon I just couldn’t seem to stop crying.
My mom came home from work and, as always, called to me in my room from the kitchen downstairs.
“Hello? Anybody home??” she yelled, like always.
I tried to compose myself enough to at least get some semblance of a coherent thought to leave my lips.
“..mmhere..” I managed to utter.
Motherly instinct kicked in. I immediately heard her walk through our foyer and she began to *thud* ascend *thud* the stairs. *thud* I knew *thud* I only *thud* had thirt- *thud* -een *thud* steps *thud* to make *thud* myself *thud* look like *thud* life *thud* was just *…thud* awesome.
I couldn’t do it. Like a small child with a scraped knee, the pain hurts worst the moment you lay eyes on mommy there to help. I curled up and began to cry even harder than before.
By then she was standing in the doorway. In that typical motherly way, she knew exactly what was wrong without a second thought. She simply walked over to where I was sitting and sat down beside me.
Now, in my family, we’re not exactly what you would call “affectionate.” I don’t know if that’s because we’re Italian or maybe it’s just a Pennsylvania thing. Whatever the reason, we’re not the type that says “I love you” every single time before we hang up the phone. We’re not the kind that loves hugs and singing and baking cakes and making candy and smelling roses and puking up rainbows. I guess we figure our love is implied more or less by the fact that, well, we’re family. So, when one of us shows even the tiniest act of love beyond the norm, it’s special; something incredible, even.
When my mom sat beside me, she put her arm around my shoulders. Not in a way a proud father would do to his son, but rather, the way a mother would do to her small child who just lost their pet dog, but can’t find the words to explain where the dog has gone. It was the kind of arm that’s almost a hug, a cradle, an embrace. We sat in silence for a little while, and then she gently said:
“Don’t worry, Sara, one day you’ll find Mr. Right.”
Mr. Right.
These words will stay with me for as long as I live. Mr. Right. Instantly, I feel comforted just thinking about it. What does that even mean, Mr. Right? I think that’s the best part. I try to picture him, but I can’t. He’s perfect in every way, but I don’t know how. He’s perfect for me, but what even defines perfect? All I know is that one day I’ll find him, and every day that I feel lonely, I just remember he’s out there somewhere waiting for me to find him. Just the thought of living without the hell that I went through, thinking about my blissful coexistence with Mr. Right, how perfect it will be, how beautiful, how RIGHT...it makes me excited. It made me excited when I first heard those words and it makes me excited to this very day. I’m excited right now, just thinking with hope towards the future. The Right future.
My mom didn’t say anything else to me after she spoke those words. Just cradled me for a bit longer, stood up, walked out, and continued with her daily business. I’d be curious to know if she even remembers this day happening. I certainly do, and I refuse to forget it, because it always reminds me to live with just a little bit of hope that maybe, somewhere out there, Mr. Right is living his life too, hoping that Mrs. Right will come along to make all the hurt go away.
Just maybe.
And thanks mom. I love you. For everything♥
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