Not My Mother, Miranda Smith [smart books to read txt] 📗

“It was very generous of you,” I say.

“It’s a shame she’ll mess it up once she tears into that cake,” Des says, giving Ava a hearty cuddle.

“A true fashionista wouldn’t be caught dead in the same outfit twice,” Carmen says, nudging Des.

Looking at them, you wouldn’t think Carmen and Des had anything in common. Carmen is tall and slim, while Des is short and squat. Carmen appears polished in her high-waisted pants and blouse, where Des looks thrown together in flour-dusted joggers. It only takes a short conversation with the two women to see how like-minded they are. They both give as good as they get.

“The place looks great,” Michael says, giving the room another once-over. I’ve turned The Shack’s dining room into a pink and gold wonderland, an almost exact replica of the Pinterest board I started creating three months ago.

“Thank you.” And I am thankful. I need this reassurance.

I reach my hand out to Ava, letting her tiny fingers clench around mine. Her light blue eyes flit about, taking in the colors, the presents, the people. She appears happy. That’s all that matters.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I scan the screen to see who is calling.

It’s Evan.

Of course he’d be calling today. He probably doesn’t remember it’s Ava’s birthday, I tell myself. Or maybe he does and that is why he’s calling. Either way, I won’t answer. I switch the phone on silent, tucking it into the back pocket of my jeans.

“Who’s that?” Carmen asks, having caught the look on my face.

“No one,” I say, looking around the room. “Anyone seen Mom?”

“She’s upstairs wrapping her gift,” Des answers.

“I’ll go get her. I’m sure the other parents are getting antsy. It’s probably time to cut the cake,” I say, giving Ava another smile before walking away.

When we moved to North Bay, Mom rented the upstairs apartment above The Shack, which is how she met Des. They sparked a friendship, and the rest is history. We continued to live there, even though Mom eventually made enough money to move elsewhere. She’s still never left. It’s her home, I suppose.

I climb the narrow stairwell connected to the kitchen, gently pushing open the apartment door. Mom is sitting on the living room floor in front of a massive gift-wrapped box.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she mumbles, a strip of tape between her teeth.

“You spent too much time decorating for the party.” I lean against the doorframe, my arms crossed.

“I know. I just wanted the place to look perfect. And it does, doesn’t it? You picked the most adorable decorations. I love the cake. And that little sign for her high chair.”

Mom tacks the tape to the box and sits back, pleased. She leans on the present for stability and stands.

“Do I even want to know what you’ve bought her this time?”

“I’ve got one granddaughter. Let me spoil her.” She walks over and squeezes my hand. “Speaking of gifts, I got you a little something.”

I poke my head into the hallway to hear what’s going on downstairs. “We have people waiting.”

“It’ll only take a second.” She pushes the hair off her face, and I notice the sparse gray strands starting to peek through. She takes a small pink box out of her pocket. “Today is about Ava, yes. But it’s a special day for you, too. People always forget the mother’s role.”

Here I am, thinking my efforts go unseen, thinking I’m not enough. Mom always has a way of reminding me that I am. She’s the partner I need when the weight becomes too heavy. And she’s right: throughout the day, my mind has revisited where we were a year ago, the intimate details of Ava’s birth story. Somehow, the event seems like yesterday, and yet here we are a year later, celebrating it. The joy and the pain. It takes both to make a life. It takes both to live one.

I open the gift. It’s a ring with three pearls. Each is a different color: black, white and pink.

“Mom, you didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to get you something. You’ve sacrificed a lot over this past year, and, honestly, I couldn’t be prouder. I thought I was lucky having you for a daughter. You’re an even better mother.”

We’ve not always had this friendship, Mom and me. Most mothers argue with their teenage daughters, and we were no exception. But since I entered adulthood, we’ve become much closer. Best friends, really. And since I’ve had Ava—my goodness, I don’t know what I’d do without her.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, sliding the ring down my finger.

“The different colors reminded me of the three of us. You, Ava and me.”

I hug her, resting my cheek against her shoulder. “Thank you, Mom. For everything.”

I help her carry Ava’s gift downstairs. We place it by the present table, where the cake sits at the center. There’s a unicorn cake topper on the top layer. Carmen’s idea. It’s fitting, I suppose. Like Ava herself is a mythical creature, rare and beautiful. Ava was never a guarantee, that’s for sure. She’s a gift. My little miracle. Now she’s here, smiling at everyone that passes, equal parts overwhelmed and mesmerized.

Carmen is holding her, probably so Des can fetch the next pizza. Carmen is deep in conversation with Holly Dale. I only catch the tail end as I approach.

“I’m just saying, I think it would get to me,” Holly says, one hand on her hip, the tattoo on her bicep on full display. “How can you defend people who willingly break the law?”

I puff out my cheeks, bracing for Carmen’s response. Holly is a wannabe activist, the causes ever-changing. Of course, she can’t understand Carmen’s career as a defense attorney.

“It’s about due process. I’m doing my part for justice, even if others don’t see it that way,” Carmen says, shifting her weight to better hold Ava. “People tend to view crime as black or white. Did they do it, or didn’t they? I focus on the less obvious question: why?