Lucky Girl Jamie Pacton (digital e reader txt) 📖

The rest of the story rushes out of me. “I bought the ticket on Dad’s birthday, and I don’t know why or how, but it won. And that would be great and all, because who doesn’t want $58 million, but I’m still seventeen, and if a minor buys a ticket, it’s actually a misdemeanor. And the lotto commission won’t let me cash the prize, and I might get charged as a criminal—”

Mom puts a hand on my arm. “Jane. Slow down. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

A strangled sort of laugh breaks out of my throat. “Why didn’t I tell you? Mom. Look around.”

I gesture to the kitchen filled with junk, the living room stacked even higher with garbage, and all the wedding dresses hanging from the curtain rod above the back sliding-glass door. “I was terrified that if I told you, you’d take the ticket and use it to buy more stuff.”

Understanding dawns in Mom’s eyes. “We don’t have too much stuff,” she says softly.

“Mom.”

She shakes her head. “We really don’t, Jane. All this stuff is important.”

“Mom, it’s not. It’s just other people’s junk.”

“But it had meaning for them …”

My stomach sinks, and I bury my head in my hands. “I knew you’d react like this. Mom, hoarding isn’t healthy. For any of us.”

Mom’s voice is so quiet, I almost don’t hear it. “I know, Jane. I know. But I can’t seem to help myself. It’s how I hold on to your father.”

“You’re not holding on to him! You’re losing me. Don’t you see that?” The words fly out of me, like birds let out of a cage. “This isn’t a home anymore, and there’s no room for me in it. I feel like you’ve buried me under all this stuff, and I have to fight for a place here. Like you don’t know anything about what’s going on with me or what I’ve been through lately.”

Mom sits very still for a moment, as if what I’ve said is washing over her.

“I’m not losing you, Jane.”

“You are. I’m here, but you don’t really see me anymore. You drag me out to do Big Junk Dump day when I have homework or just want to hang out with my friends. Everything—every goddamn thing—is about you and what you want or need. And I can’t take it anymore! I miss Dad too, but this isn’t the way to hold on to him.”

Mom closes her eyes for a long moment. When she opens them again, a tear rolls down her cheek. “I’m so sorry, Jane. I never meant to make you feel unwanted or like I didn’t care. There’s so much you and I never talked about after your dad … after he died. We had a lot of hard stuff going on, and I should’ve been more open with you, but you were so young, and in pain, and trying to start a new school. And …”

“What are you talking about? You and dad were the perfect couple. All I remember is you guys making out all the time, which probably scarred me for life.”

Mom laughs. It’s a heartbreaking, tired sound that I’ll probably never unhear.

“Your father and I loved each other so much, but we weren’t perfect. Believe me. Relationships—especially ones like ours, that started when we were just barely adults ourselves—are never perfect. Yes, we met at twenty and grew into adults together, but we didn’t always do a good job growing together as a couple or as humans. I could’ve been a much better partner.” Mom twists her wedding ring around and around her finger as she continues. “The day your father died, we had a terrible fight about something that’s not even important anymore. We weren’t communicating well at the time—we hadn’t been for a while—and then suddenly it was all out there. It hurt so much, what he said. And I said so many ugly, horrible things in reply. He stormed away, slamming the door on his way to work. I remember sitting at the kitchen table and sobbing because it felt like my world, my marriage, and the great love of my life was shattering in front of my eyes. All I could do was reach out and try to grab for the pieces.”

I had heard that fight—I’d been in my room, reading and trying to ignore it—and I remember walking in on Mom crying at the table. I’d asked what was wrong, but she’d just wiped her tears, saying she was fine.

“Did you ever make up with Dad?” I ask softly.

“Never,” she says in a cracked voice. “I was going to send him a text, but I was just too upset. He sent me one, though, right before he went into the burning house. It just said, ‘Love you. We’ll figure it all out.’ But then he didn’t come out of the fire. And I never got to tell him I was sorry. That he was my person. That I would have moved the world to see him smile one more time. He was just gone, and my awful words were the last he heard from me. So, I think collecting all this stuff has been my apology to him.” She gestures to all the piles of junk still in the living room.

A line of tears runs down my cheeks. “He knew you loved him, Mom. You don’t have to keep apologizing. He wouldn’t have wanted you to spend your life doing that. I know he wouldn’t.”

She sniffles, swiping at her own tears. “But how do I even start, Jane? How can I get rid of all this? With every piece of stuff I move or every trash bag I fill, it seems somehow like I’m throwing away my great love.”

I take her hand, scooting my chair closer to hers. “Dad is not this stuff. He’s just not. And you can forgive yourself, Mom, while still loving him and missing him. That is totally okay.”

She squeezes my hand for