The sweet Vietnamese man doing my manicure said, “You got a mother?” It was two days before Mother’s Day, so the question made perfect sense.
“No. My mother died last summer. Just me and my kids and husband this year,” I said.
“Oh. So sorry. Sad day for you,” he said. He really was sorry, I could just tell. I patted my hand for a moment, then started filing my nails again. I pulled myself together and turned on the massage chair. I love the nail salon. It’s one of the few places you can sit alone in silence and stare at the ceiling, and no one really cares. That’s what you are supposed to do in nail salons.
I woke up at 5 a.m., and roamed around the house that Sunday. I made coffee and sat on the porch. I thought of her, and the blonde beehive she wore when I was young, and her Neiman Marcus suits. She always smelled of Chanel No. 5 and hairspray. She was my Mom. And I miss her.
