Apology to My Mother
by Ruth Innes
 “Who do you like better, me or your mother?” Virginia asked.
Virginia was my best friend and we played together every day when we were little. I liked playing at Virginia’s but Virginia always wanted to play at my house. It didn’t make sense to me because she had wonderful things to play with—even a real playhouse filled with dolls and toys in her backyard. I couldn’t help wondering why she liked being at my house all the time.
I must have been about five years old then and Virginia about six. It took a great deal of teasing because everyone thought we were too young, but one delicious night we were allowed to sleep in her playhouse. That was when Virginia asked the question. “Who do you like better, me or your mother?”
Of course I liked my mother better—better than anyone in the world—but I knew what answer Virginia wanted from me.
“You’re my best fiend,” Virginia continued, “and I like you better than my mother.”
The inference was clear. If I didn’t say I liked Virginia better than my mother, she wouldn’t be my best friend any more.
“I like you better,” I lied.
In the morning, I ran home as fast as I could to make sure my mother was all right. I feared that telling Virginia I liked her better was something like stepping on a crack and breaking mother’s back.
Mother was fine. She was standing at the stove cooking breakfast and I put my arms around from the back to give her a big hug. “I like you best of all, Mother,” I said, full of guilt for not saying so to Virginia.
Mother never knew about the lie I told Virginia and Virginia never knew it was a lie. We remained best friends until our fifth year in elementary school when Virginia’s mother committed suicide and Virginia moved away to live with her grandmother.
Ruth Innes lives in Jensen Beach, Florida. Her stories and articles have appeared in numberous publications, including Dan River Anthology
Women Speak Out, Anterior Fiction Quarterly, and West Wind Review.
Copyright © 2007. Do not reproduce without permission. |