Every Mother's Day

Emilia’s P.O.V.

Every year for Mother’s Day, I do the same thing. I don’t take my adoptive mother out to lunch or visit with her because there is no love lost between us. That may sound harsh, but Ann and Harvey Watts made it very clear that the only reason they adopted me was to get extra money.

My birth mother was killed in a home invasion when I was nine. My mom worked from home as an online English teacher for students from other countries. She could speak five different languages, which she had told me she learned because her dad was in the military, so she spent her entire childhood overseas. My dad died when she was pregnant with me, so it was just her and me.

I look like my mom, or at least how I remember her. She had long curly red hair and blue eyes, too. I try to remember every minute we had together because when I lost her, I lost everything. Her parents had died before I was born, and she had no other family, so I was put into foster care until my foster parents decided to adopt me. They didn’t abuse me or anything, which is a good thing, and they provided clothes and meals. However, there was no parental love or even caring involved. I didn’t realize how much a hug and kind touch meant until my mom was gone. She died fifteen years ago, but I can still remember the way she smelled and the feel of her arms around me when she hugged me.

I wipe the tears from my cheeks and take a deep breath. It’s time to go to the cemetery. That’s where I go every Mother’s Day. I have gone every year since she died. That was one of the decent things Ann did for me. She would buy flowers and take me to my mom’s grave. When I got old enough to go myself, I would take the bus as far as it would go and walk the rest of the way.

I get in my car and drive to the flower shop down the street. I still live in Arlington, Virginia. I couldn’t move away because this is where my mom is buried. I go into the flower shop and wave at Kimmie, the owner. In addition to Mother’s Day, I visit my mom on her birthday, my birthday, and most holidays, but Mother’s Day has always been the most important to me. I pick out a bouquet of flowers and go to the counter.

“Hi Emilia, how are you?” Kimmie asks as she adds some baby breath to the bouquet.

“I’m okay. How are the kids and grandkids?” She smiles and begins telling me all about her family. That’s my way to deflect personal conversations. I always say I’m okay and then ask people about their families or something else I know is important to them. After I pay for the flowers, I leave the shop and head to the cemetery.

I work for the Central Intelligence Agency. No, I’m not a CIA agent. I’m an administrative assistant. Lots of classified documents come across my desk, but I have no idea what any of them mean. I just pass them on to the agents who they’re for. I was lucky to get the job, since many more qualified people were applying, but the hiring manager said she liked my references and me.

When I reach the cemetery, I drive to where my mom is buried beneath a weeping willow. It seems appropriate for her to be buried under the saddest type of tree I’ve ever heard of. I like it too because it provides a lot of shade, so I can spend hours with her if I want to, and be sheltered from the sun. I walk over to her, remove the old flowers from the little vase attached to her headstone, and replace them with the fresh ones. I then sit on the blanket I brought.

“Hi, Mom. Happy Mother’s Day. I know I tell you how much I miss you every time I come, but that’s never going to change. Every day that goes by is a reminder that you were taken from me, and your killer or killers were never caught. I went to school that day, and when I came home, my world was shattered. I’m glad the police were there and kept me from seeing you, but I saw the blood after you were taken away. That image still haunts me to this day. There was so much blood everywhere. I want to know what they did to you, but I have been too chicken to even Google your name. I don’t want to see the headlines from the worst day of my life. Tell Dad to make today extra special for you.” I look at my dad’s headstone next to my mom’s. I don’t feel the same connection and loss with him as I do with her because he’s a stranger to me. I saw a few pictures of him when I was a child, but other than that, she didn’t like to talk about him too much. I wonder if she was heartbroken, and the memories were too hard for her.

I lay down on the blanket and look up at the tree. The sky that’s peeking through is blue, and a warm breeze blows over me. I don’t know what it’s like to be in love. I’ve gone out with men and even called a couple my boyfriend, but I never loved any of them. Any time I started getting too close, I would do something to make them back off and eventually leave. I realize the fear of loving someone and having them leave or worse is what makes me scared to love, but I can’t help it. Anytime I pushed people away, they never showed any incentive to push back to prove they cared about me. To me, that means it wasn’t meant to be. That may not be fair, but if I’m going to give a man a real chance, then I want him to prove to me I should. Otherwise, what’s the point?

I sit up when I hear footsteps, and they come to a stop. There is a man watching me. He’s older, maybe in his fifties, with salt and pepper hair, wearing jeans and a black button-up short-sleeved shirt. I wonder if he’s here visiting his mother. Why is he looking at me like he wants to say something?

“Can I help you?” I ask. He’s maybe twenty yards from me, but he just keeps staring.

“Don’t believe everything you see.” At first, I’m not sure I heard him right.

“What?” I ask.

“Don’t believe everything you see. They’re not dead.” He turns and begins walking away quickly.

“Wait. Who are you talking about?” I yell after him as I stand. He stops and turns to look at me.

“The people you are visiting. They have headstones, but their caskets are empty.” He begins running away as I stare after him, stunned. He has to be delusional. Right?