Mom is a Mess

I took her to the Buick in silence and opened the door for her and handed her her things. I tossed my bags in the back, jumped in the car, and hit the highway. We rode for a couple of hours without saying a word. It was like she knew that I'd finally come for her and there wasn't much point debating it.

It was getting dark by the time she finally spoke.

"Jax?"

"Yeah, Mom?"

"Where are we going?"

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the contract. And then she cried. Little squeaky whimpering cries of joy and relief and pride; not big ugly messy sobs like the night before. She knew what that letter meant. And she knew it was my turn to take her away from the toxic relationships and bitter memories.

"Hungry?" she asked me after her tears had dried and our new reality had sunk in.

"I hear they have good chili the next town over."

"I was actually just thinking about nachos."