The night I had booked the ticket came back in pieces. Jason’s voice on the phone, clipped, distracted, almost annoyed.
“Mom, it’s complicated,” he had said. “Olivia’s parents are going to be here. Her mother already asked what you do for a living. I told her that you were retired. I didn’t tell her about the diner.”
“Jason.”
“They’re a certain kind of people, alright? When you come, don’t bring up the trailer years. Don’t bring up the food stamps. And please, for the love of God, don’t show up with something handmade like it’s a craft fair.”
The door swung open. There he was. My Jason.
A laugh slipped out of me, because nothing else would come.
“I’m your mother, sweetheart. I’m not coming to impress anyone.”
“That’s the problem.” A pause. Then, quieter, almost to himself, “I just don’t want to spend the whole weekend explaining you.”
