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She sat next to me on the couch and folded her hands the way people do when they’re extremely nervous or desperately praying to a god they’re not sure exists. She slowly inhaled, raised her eyebrows and tilted her head toward the ceiling. She was the most beautiful woman in the world.
She opened her mouth and the stories came out. Horrible stories. She weathered the impossible. She used words like gun, punch, stab, kidnap, unplanned pregnancy, cocaine and rape. I watched her eyes hold back the tears. She breathed out, like a brief intermission between horrors. I held her hand and thought that if vulnerability was strength, she was the strongest woman on the planet.
I met her eyes out of fear that I would be overtaken. I had to be the strong one. I had to be the man. I had to hold it together for the both of us. Someone had to. It was what she deserved, what she earned, and I wanted to be that for her.
I traced the lines on her hands with my eyes and wondered about all they’ve seen. Been through. Endured. I wished I could’ve been there to prevent the evils that men did. I would’ve stolen, beaten and murdered for her. I still would have. How could she still be so wonderful? So beautiful. So selfless. How was I lucky enough to have been given this time with her?
I sat in quiet appreciation, because moments like these are few and far between. There was always someone else around to steal away potential moments, and the stress and obligations of real life continually diminish what really is life. I said nothing. My phone was silently tucked away. The television was off. Just us, on a couch.
The sunlight came through the three large living room windows and lit up her face. This was difficult for her and it showed. In her hands, in her shaky voice, in the way she couldn’t get comfortable on that damn couch. I wanted to know everything. I wanted her to know that I wanted to know everything. I let her speak for as long as she could, until her hands stopped moving and she rested her chin on her chest.
I let her breathe in and out. Then, I slowly leaned forward and hugged her. I hugged her hard and good and wished I could hug it all away. All of the violence and death. All of the love lost, won and lost again.
I wanted to be the only man in her life who didn’t disappoint her. So I held her with everything I had, and while my head was behind hers, I slipped and one tear came rolling down my cheek. I didn’t let her know. I would never let her know. She held me for a long time and it felt good. There was a familiar comfort that made me want to fall asleep. Now. Here.
I let her go and looked at her.
“That is your history,” she said.
I turned away because I had to, took in a long breath, and said, “I love you, Mom. You did an amazing job.”

- 'The Most Beautiful Woman In The World' from the book: Maybe He'll Grow Out Of It. Now only $20.
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