“No they won’t. Breakfast is an important meal.”
He waved a hand in dismissal. “I’m not hungry anyway.”
“You will eat a meal if I prepare it.”
Yes, he would—especially if she’d gone to all this effort despite her injured ankle.
As she well knew.
“I wish you wouldn’t feel like you have to prepare food for me.” He huffed out a breath. “I’m a grown man. I can take care of myself.”
She froze for an instant, the spatula in her hand suspended above the fried egg in the pan on the stove. “I know that.” A quiver rippled through her words, and she gripped the edge of the counter. Flipped the egg.
Thomma frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
But as she hobbled to the cabinet in the small kitchen to retrieve a plate, the shimmer in her eyes said otherwise.
His pulse stumbled.
“’Ami.” He closed the distance between them. “What’s going on? Does your ankle hurt? Do you want a painkiller?”
She angled away from him. “I’ll be done here in a few minutes. Once I sit, it won’t hurt.”
“Why don’t you sit now? I can finish up the breakfast.” He pulled out a chair.
“No. I have prepared breakfast for my family while feeling much worse than this. I’ll put my foot up after you’re gone.”
“But I can take over.”
“I know. You are a grown man, as you said. You don’t need me anymore.” She turned toward him, her back to the window, the sky outside not yet lightened by the sun. “But this is my life, Thomma. I cook and clean and do the laundry and keep the household running and love my family.” A tear leaked out of the corner of her eye, and she swiped it away. “The truth is, I need you more than you need me.”
Her admission was like a sucker punch to the gut.
Despite the strong front she presented to the world, his mother too had doubts and insecurities. The life she’d known had also vanished, and like him, she was searching for meaning in this new land.
Why had he never realized that?
Because you’ve been selfish, and you’ve only paid attention to your own problems.
The rebuke from his conscience was harsh—but true.
He had to do better for this woman who’d been the glue in their family as far back as he could remember.
“You’re wrong, ’Ami.” He crossed to her and took the worn hands that had cared for him with such tenderness when he was a child. That were still caring for him—and his daughter. “I do need you. So does Elisa.”
“For now, maybe.”
“For always.”
She searched his face, straightened her shoulders, and tugged her hands free, her typical strong façade slipping back into place. “Your egg will burn. Sit. The meal is ready.”
He moved to the table, filled with as many of the breakfast foods from home as she could make from the ingredients she’d found at the local market. Like it had been in the old days, before terror and persecution and tragedy had driven them away from their native land.
His mother had always done her best for her family, no matter the cost to her.
Today was but the latest example.
Despite the pain in her ankle, she was cooking breakfast for her son because that’s what she did. Because she considered it her responsibility. Because this was what gave her life meaning.
She had to be wondering where she would find that meaning if he and Elisa had no need of her anymore.
The early hour, coupled with pain that could have disrupted her sleep, must have left her weary and disheartened—and pried open a crack in her armor, giving him a rare glimpse of the fear and vulnerability this rock of a woman usually kept under wraps.
Whatever the reason her fortitude had faltered in the pre-dawn hours of this May morning, it was an ice-water-in-the-face wake-up call. A sharp reminder that he wasn’t the only one struggling.
It was also disconcerting.
If someone as strong as ’Ami could stumble, what hope was there for him?
“Eat.” She set the egg in front of him and added a basket of pita bread to the plates of cheese, hummus, yogurt, stewed fava beans, and pickled eggplant in olive oil arrayed on the table—all breakfast favorites from their homeland.
This was a feast compared to the meager, basic rations in the refugee camp.
Yet even there, she’d done her best to create meals for her decimated family from the sparse, basic ingredients available.
And he’d taken it for granted.
Still took all she did for granted.
He clenched his fingers around the mug of coffee she slid toward him, and a flood of shame swept through him as another realization smacked him in the face.
Without his mother, he and Elisa wouldn’t have survived in that camp.
Nor would they be here.
She was the one who’d latched on to the invitation that had come out of the blue.
She was the one who’d worked with the person from the humanitarian aid organization to complete all the necessary paperwork.
She was the one who’d pushed and prodded him every step of the way until they’d set foot in Hope Harbor.
Vision misting, he took her hand. “’Ami . . . I’m sorry.”
“For what?” She gave him a blank look.
“For not appreciating all you’ve done for me and Elisa. All you’ve done for our family my whole life.”
“It’s what mothers do. Eat your egg or it will get cold.” She limped back to the counter, dispensed with her apron, and continued toward the hall. “I will rest now so I can return to my job tomorrow.”
“You like the work you are doing?”
She shifted back. “There is a need, and I am able to help fill it. That is good for the heart—and the soul.”
Her gaze locked with his, and then she continued down the hall, resting her fingertips against the walls for support.
Thomma broke off a bite of his egg. Surveyed the table. He would eat the food his mother had gone to the trouble to prepare.
But he hadn’t lied a few minutes ago.
He wasn’t hungry.
His appetite had died in Syria, along with the family and the life he’d loved.
Except . . . not all of his family was gone—and ’Ami’s parting message hadn’t been lost on him.
There was a need—and a responsibility—in his own backyard he alone could fill, yet he’d ignored it.
His mother had soldiered on through the pain of loss in Syria, and again this morning through the pain of a sprained ankle. Doing what had to be done. Fulfilling her obligations.
She was telling him he should do the same with Elisa.
But how could he expose himself to more hurt and heartache, when he’d already exceeded the limits of his tolerance for pain?
He set his fork down, rested his elbows on the table, and dropped his face into his hands. His desperate prayer last week hadn’t produced any results, but where else could he turn?
God, I don’t know what to do. I wake every morning hoping the darkness will be less oppressive, but each day is as bleak as the one before. Help me love my daughter as I should. As I know Raca would have wanted me to. Please give me the courage and strength to carry on as my mother does—and the grace to appreciate the second chance you’ve given the three of us.