That's (Not Exactly) Amore Read Online Free Page B

launches into the sad story of how she “didn’t” sleep, but I give her the “fine” answer anyway and let my mind wander while she begins the inevitable diatribe.
    Sometimes you just have to face facts. And the fact at this moment is that my morning solace is over for today. I’m not bitter. It’s just the way things are. I know my mom depends on me.
    As far as immediate family goes, it’s been just the two of us since Daddy died the summer after my high school graduation. Mom fell apart and I had to shoulder a lot of her emotional baggage. I make the best of things where she’s concerned. I don’t mean to imply it’s all about me sacrificing for her. There are plenty of good times when I love her company. And plenty of times when I don’t. That’s life.
    For now, while I’m still a little shaky from last night’s robbery, Mom feels like a safe place. So I tune out her complaining and take a good look at the woman who raised me.
    My mom has worn the same yellow housecoat every morning for years. A chenille, ankle-length zip-up that is practically threadbare in certain areas. The bottom hem is frayed. I know she wears it because it’s the last gift my dad bought for her before he died. For their twentieth anniversary. She can’t let go.
    Mom used to be a lot of fun. Smiled all the time, never let anything keep her from a goal. I knew she loved and missed my dad. But I never realized just how much until my first Christmas break as a freshman at NYU when I came home for three weeks. Anyone can hide depression for a weekend, but three weeks? Not a chance.
    I figured out pretty fast that most days she had trouble getting out of bed. Christmas was a nightmare that year—our first without him. She cried from Christmas Eve through New Year’s and was still teary-eyed on January 7 when I left to go back to school. I remember her standing in the doorway, clutching the neckline of her robe and waving good-bye, so forlorn and alone. I should have wanted to run to her. But I didn’t. All I wanted to do was get away.
    Three years ago, I finally broke down and bought her a new robe. A nice new chenille. Similar to the one she’s worn for the past twelve years only without the frayed ends and repaired holes near the zipper. Plus, it was white. I love white robes.
    She smiled politely, thanked me with a kiss on the cheek, and never wore it. Not even once that I’ve ever seen. For all I know, she gave it to Goodwill.
    “Aren’t you freezing, Ma?” The chiminea throws out enough heat to keep things cozy, but not when a person isn’t wearing a coat or at least a warm housecoat. “That housecoat . . .”
    She gives me a half-smile and interrupts me without taking the bait. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. How about some breakfast?”
    It looks like we’re not going to discuss the robe again. That’s okay. Avoidance is how Mom deals with life. I understand and don’t push. I suppose I have a little avoidance issue too. “Want me to cook?”
    She gives me a look. I should have known better. I might be a cook extraordinaire everywhere else, but not in Mom’s kitchen. I give her a quirky grin and a peck on the cheek. “Sorry. I’ll just go shower and dress while you fix breakfast.”
    “Good idea.”
    I step inside just ahead of her and start down the hall to the stairs when I realize she’s following me.
    “Something wrong, Ma?”
    “No.” She hesitates. Clearly something is on her mind.
    “Come on, spill it.”
    “I was just wondering who called so late last night.”
    “Oh! I forgot to tell you. Mark Hall, the officer who came to my apartment, found some of my things and the guy who took them in the first place, so they think they’ll be able to recover almost everything.”
    “That’s wonderful, honey.”
    But her voice isn’t very enthusiastic. Her eyes search my face. “I guess you won’t be staying long, then?”
    Ahh. That explains it.
    “Just the weekend. It’s too far