Whispered Prayers

by Alex Grayson

I’m just pouring a cup when my phone rings. I snatch it off the counter, then groan when I see my mom’s name. My mother is a good, loving woman, but there are times I just can’t handle her. She worries, and I love that about her; I just wish she’d know when to leave shit alone. I know she means well, she’s a mother after all, but her asking how I’m doing every time we talk, knowing she’s referring to my emotional state, isn’t something I want or need. All it does is remind me of what I try so fucking hard to forget. It’s bad enough I see them every time I look in the mirror, I don’t need them thrown in my face. For almost a year after the accident, she hovered over me like a mother hen. It’s just me and my younger sister, so when one of her kids is hurting, I know she hurts as well. Dad had to finally drag her out of my house when he saw she wasn’t helping at all, but hindering my mental healing. Before the accident, they were supposed to move to Tennessee where my sister Christa lives, but the accident put the move on hold. Luckily, after realizing what my mother was doing, my father eventually convinced her to go forward with the move. I miss my family, but I’m glad they aren’t so close anymore. I hit Ignore and set the phone back down on the counter. I know I’m being a dick, and I do feel guilty, but I just can’t talk to her right now. I’ll call her back later or something.