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Chapter 41

Cleo's POV

"Hello. My name is Cleo Roberts," I said. The wood floors creaked under my feet, like they were coming alive. I wanted this to be over with. "Judith Amelia Roberts was my mother. She was born September 16th, 1974 and died April 8th, 2020. And... I'm gonna be honest. I don't know why I'm speaking up here."

I looked out at the audience. There were 10 people, maybe. They didn't even fill all the chairs. I searched for Will, met his eyes, and took in a breath.

"I knew a sliver of who my mom was. A part-time maid. A bitter wife. A mom who... who tried, for the most part, to seem happier to have children than she was. Mom got lucky. Definitely not in all aspects of life, but when it came to her kids," I paused, shaking my head, "Yeah, I'd say she was lucky."

"My brother and I are nothing like her, not in the ways that matter. We are loyal. We fight for what we love. We stay. Mom... she wouldn't. And, that meant I didn't get to know a lot of my mother. I'm not sure why she drank. I just know that she did. And I know that she got sober a few times." The microphone screeched and I adjusted it. "She was never sober with me, though, and as a 7 year old, I didn't understand that. I figured it was me, that I was causing it."

I looked down at my paper where I'd written out a speech. Half of what I said felt dishonest. The other half was just angry.

"The last time I spoke to my mom was my 14th birthday. She called me, fresh out of an AA meeting, and she sounded really good. Happy, you know? Energetic. She said, 'Hi sweet pea,' just like when I was a kid. And then, she said, 'I'm trying to make amends. It's one of the steps... Could you put your brother on the phone?'"

I took in a breath. "And I remember being so sad, because she didn't even wish me a happy birthday, or apologize to me. I was hurt too. Nobody was apologizing to me. She had taken my childhood and flipped it on its head and she couldn't even recognize that."

I looked over at the coffin. It was hard to believe someone who held so much power over my life was contained in one wooden box.

"I was 10 years old when my mom left. She just sort of disappeared one afternoon, a little after my dad was arrested. Judith Roberts didn't say goodbye. Or pack a bag. She was there one day- drinking on the porch, smoking in the kitchen- and gone the next. Her stuff was still everywhere, and I felt like maybe she never left. Like she was playing a really good game of hide and seek."

The audience was blinking up at me. I thought they'd be uncomfortable, but they weren't. They were leaned in, interested, like kids during story time.

"She didn't come back. Surprise." I was shaking a little, and I don't even know why. Olivia wanted to be here. I asked her not to. I was starting to regret that. "I grew up angry at my mom. That was the hardest part. I was a kid, and she left me, and even with all of the rage inside of me, I just wanted her back. I would've given up the anger for one hug from my mom.

"Mom had Will when she was in high school, and me in her twenties. She used to tell us all the time that we ruined her life. We took away her beauty, her potential. And as a kid, I believed her. I really thought that because of me, Judith Roberts hated herself. I know better now."

In the front row, there was one chair with a reserved sign on it that had stayed empty.

"My father- Bradley- couldn't make it here. But, if he had, he'd probably talk about when they first met, and the years before I was born. That had to have been when they were in love, because they sure as hell weren't when I knew them. My mom was cold, and moody, and my dad was impatient. They would fight for hours. I thought they hated each other, until dad got arrested. My mom was devastated. She cried for days, she wouldn't eat or sleep."

"My dad's still in jail for another 20 or so years. God, mom would be so mad if she found out he didn't come to her funeral. And she knew how to get mad. My mom was an expert at fighting, at yelling. At winning. When I was eight? I saw an episode of a sitcom where this girl and her mom got into an argument, so the girl tried to run away. And, the next time my mom yelled at me, I threatened to run away. And she just... She just laughed and said, 'go ahead.Nobody is going to love you out there. I'm all you have'." I paused, taking in a breath. "I'm all you have."

"I still think about that, still hear her in the back of my head. And the worst part is... she was right. I was just a kid. There was nobody else in the world that loved me except for my parents. Nobody else looking out for me. Because I was 8 years old," I said, my voice saying. "And she was all I had."

I shook my head, staring at my hands. "Judith Amelia Roberts was a cold woman. She didn't care about the people she was supposed to and cared too much about the things that ruined her. She struggled with addiction for 25 years before recovering. After she left us."

Will looked emptied out in the audience. I wondered if he felt sad, or angry. "Mom had the ability to get better, to get over her addiction. She went back to rehab after leaving and started going to AA meetings. She tried, you know? Like she actually tried to be a good person. After I was out of her life," I said. "And I've asked myself everyday since I was ten years old why I wasn't enough for my mom."

The silence in the room was eating me alive. I cleared my throat. "My mom painted for years. She had this easel that she would spend her days working on in the backyard. Her art was so strange to look at. They were these blurred pieces of the house we lived in done in bright colors, where all the windows and doors where thrown into black and white. Looking at those paintings were my only way to see how my mother saw the world."

"Dad always watched her paint," I said after a beat. "He stood on the patio of our backyard with his scotch, and silently watched this woman that he loved, then hated. That's still what love is to me, I think. At least, for a while it was. Indifference toward someone, but showing in tiny, inconsistent ways that you care."

"Love isn't that, though. Love is sturdy. Something to depend on. It's regularity, and comfortability, and being known."

I stopped, looking back at my speech.

"Judith Amelia Roberts suffered from an overdose on April 8th, 2020. She died alone in her apartment bathroom. And after she passed, I asked to keep her paintings because... it was nice to see how the woman I'd never known viewed the world. And in the paintings of our childhood house, there was one my mom had painted of a little girl. Long, black hair and bright blue eyes. She wore my old nightgown and held my old stuffed bear in her arms. It felt good to know my mom still thought about me. It felt good to know I wasn't the only one."

"Judith Amelia Roberts died at 46 years old. She was a daughter, mother, wife, and friend to many. My mom lived a difficult life of addiction and heartbreak. She was 2 years sober when she died of an overdose," I said, pausing to glance at her coffin. I shook out everything I'd felt for her and focused on what I had written down.

"And she will be missed."

A/N:

Okay, hello lovely readers!

I know that was a bit heavier in contrast to the recent chapters.