To escape the home, I volunteered at the food bank. After the divorce, I needed anything to go forward. I didn’t anticipate a weekly routine, but giving out goods and seeing smiles made it worthwhile. Steady. Healing.
Up to Thursday.
It poured. I distributed the final bags beneath the tent. A white automobile with fogged windows came up, and a lady in a familiar flowered coat emerged.
I froze. Dariel’s mother.
She hadn’t seen me since the night she said I was “too emotional” for her kid, nearly three years ago. We parted ways badly. She was eyes-down, moving slowly, and thinner than previously.
She first didn’t recognize me. I gave her a food bag like everyone else.
We looked at each other.
Something flickered in hers. Like she wanted to speak, her lips opened.
For some reason, I said, “Are you okay?” She remained silent.
She gripped the bag tighter.
She murmured, “It’s your fault I am here.”
Unsure whether I heard her, I blinked. Catching my breath. As I released the shopping bag, my hands trembled slightly.
She left without looking back.
I was surprised when rain dripped from the canopy. Marcie, my co-volunteer, softly poked me to check on me. Telling her I needed a moment, I rounded the tent.
It was absurd, right? My fault?
My mind replayed the words all afternoon. I heard them even when I arrived home, damp shoes at the entrance, kettle humming for tea.
“You caused me to be here.”
I contemplated it in bed that night. Dariel. His mom. How everything ended.
Dariel and I dated for five years. We were engaged for one. He was cool and serene, while I wore my emotions on my sleeve. His mother hated me. Said I was “too intense” and made Dariel “feel things he didn’t need to.”
She showed her relief as we split. She messaged me that it was excellent. I didn’t respond. I blocked her and moved on.
She was in a food bank queue, and I was the villain?
I volunteered again the next week, hoping she wouldn’t return. But she did.
And the week after that.
She avoided staring at me always. She always got the same soft smile I offered everyone else. Be the larger person, I told myself.
But curiosity is a silent ache you can’t ignore.
I eventually asked Marcie about her. “That floral-coat woman?”
Oh, Marlene? Marcie lowered her voice. “She’s been coming for six months. Her home was lost. Son left. I suppose she lives at an extended-stay hotel near the old Kmart.”
Swallowed hard. You know what happened?
“No idea. Another tragic story, I suppose.”
I couldn’t let go.
The next Sunday, I drove past the extended-stay. It was decrepit, with flickering lights and smokers outside. No idea why I was there. Almost wanted to see her. Another part hoped I wouldn’t.
I departed without seeing her automobile. But I kept thinking about her.
A week later, she skipped the food bank. Not next.
I told myself not to worry. People came and departed.
However, Marcie reported not seeing Marlene in almost 10 days. “I hope she’s okay,” she frowned. “She looked pale last time.”
I debated what to do while looking at my phone that night.
I wrote Dariel a message last.
We hadn’t spoken in years, but I had his number. I expected no reaction. I had no idea what to say.
“Hi. Your mom was at the food bank. She looked ill. I thought you should know.”
Several hours later, he replied, “Thanks. I know.”
The end.
Long, I looked at those two chilly words.
He made me want to shout. Could he let his mother live like this?
It wasn’t my place. Was it?
The next Thursday, Marlene returned. Same coat and sad eyes. This time, I inquired if she needed blankets, clothing, anything else. Looking at me, her eyes were weary.
“I need my son to stop hating me,” she whispered. “But you can’t bag and distribute that, is it?”
Not knowing what to say. Told the truth.
I don’t know what happened between you two, but he’s not doing well either. He seems remote. Cold.”
Lips shook. “You think I don’t know?”
I waited.
“Why did I blame you?” Setting down her shopping bag, she inquired. Because he broke apart when you went. He didn’t show it. He stopped feeling anything. Including me.”
Swallowed. “Not my fault.”
She nodded slowly. “I know. I know not. He has nothing nice left but you. It felt like the lights turned out when you left.”
She looked like a mother seeing her only kid go behind a wall, not the heartless lady who told me I was too much.
What made me say, “Do you want me to talk to him?”
Her eyes expanded. Would you?
“I can’t promise. But maybe hearing it from someone else would make him listen.”
In the night, I phoned Dariel. He remained silent. Left voicemail.
“Hey. I am. Notice your mother… She struggles. No idea what occurred between you, but she’s sick. She still loves you. You should hear her out. That’s all I want.”
He never called back.
Next Thursday, she came with others.
I saw her automobile first. He left in a blue jacket, appearing uncomfortable.
They lined up.
I distributed meals beneath the tent with quivering hands.
Dariel gazed at me at the front. Actually looked.
He murmured, “Thanks,” softly. “For everything.”
Marlene finally smiled.
They departed with their baggage, strolling side by side without talking or arguing.
A card arrived a couple weeks later. Absent return address.
A message was inside.
You were correct. I must hear her out. We’re attempting, but not fixed. Thank you. –D”
Also in the envelope? A flowery coat-pressed blossom.
I sat on my sofa for a while after reading. No weeping. Just silent.
The world sometimes sends folks back to help you recover in ways you didn’t realize you needed.
I volunteered to avoid thinking. I somehow helped someone get back.
Maybe I discovered a little of myself.
Funny how things loop back.
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