I’ve been writing my novel now for 12 years. I’ve gone through publishers and pitched my stories through HarperCollins and Thames and Hudson. After emails of keeping in touch, I’ve officially been ignored by 12 publishing companies in the past two years. Must be a record. But my family reads my novels. Well, my mama does. She thinks I’ll be famous someday. 

Since I was young, she’d say “Robbie, you’ll make it big someday. Your stories will be a New York Times Best Seller. I can see it now, copies will be printed and people all over the world will want to read more and more of your pieces.”

My mama is my number one fan. But as for the rest of my family, I can’t say the same. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I’ve spoken to a lot of them. When I was five years of age, my mama and papa got a divorce. Some big disagreement broke out and from what my mama says, it was the last bottle of liquor in that old hag's hand that she’d ever be willing to see. I’ve never known what truly happened, but my mama scared me into not asking. The last time I asked, she told me to get back to my writing. Sitting around and asking silly questions isn't going to make me famous. And so I continue writing. Maybe one day when I’m famous, she’ll tell me the truth about Papa. 

As for the rest of my family, Papa’s side of the family is on the larger end. Between Mama and myself, they’re what we call the heartless. The heartless are more like the evil stepsisters in Cinderella. They are what Papa would regard as his preferred “family”. Papa’s sons Marley and Andrew are both lawyers; millionaires at the age of thirty. Around the Holidays, Angelica, Papa’s new wife sends out their holiday cards, with a picture of their family on the front, attached to a written letter in reflection of all the marvelous things their amazing family accomplished throughout the year. Mama used to read them and would cry for hours upon hours. I remember sitting at the kitchen table eating my Frootloops with the morning news whispering in the background, and there Ma would be, on the torn-up couch, letter in hand, tissue in the other, covering up her face just below the ridge of her nose, as if to hide her existence behind the sheet of tears. She might appear to be a strong-gutted woman. And she is. She will discipline you for your mistakes and will dig guilt down into your skin until it reaches merely bone. But now and then, when her mind wanders in the direction of Pa, she gets stuck in a whirl of despair. In recent years I’ve begun collecting the mail so I can get rid of the card before it can get into the empty hands of Mama. She’s strong, but sometimes even the strongest people need protecting.

Mama and I live in a small dirt-ridden cabin in northern Maine. The house is lightly lit by the kerosene lamps that are held by the metal prongs on the walls. The windows are frosted over only letting so much light into the concealed house. It’s a divided home. The living room consists of a couch, a coffee table, and a shelf, filled with dusty records that have yet to be played. The kitchen where I watch the morning news with Mama every morning sat at our two-chaired kitchen table and the makeshift nightstand that we use as a countertop. The bedrooms are down the hall of the kitchen where two cots are set up, where Ma and I sleep that enters into the small bathroom with a chipped mirror and a rusted bathtub. It's a small home. I think it's rather cute, but others would probably insist it goes through demolition. But it's our home. It’s where Ma and I live. And it's where we are happy.

Every morning, except for Sundays, I trudge through the overgrown weeds making my way toward the mailbox. And every morning I am met with my friend Mrs. Duney from down the street. Mrs. Duney is an 80-year-old woman who shuffles her feet down the dirt road with her walker at 8 am as the birds begin to sing and the warmth of the sun starts to simmer. She greets me with the biggest smile, piercing her cheeks, accentuating the wrinkles that run from her squinted eyes up to her forehead where gray hair and her age-spotted skin meet. On most days she’d come with her pink knitted sweater, a long floral dress, and her brown fuzzy slippers. It’s always a pleasure to see her bright blue eyes and lipstick-stained smile. I’d meet her there to have long conversations about the progress of the Vietnam War, or what life was like back during the Great Depression. But when Mrs. Duney has her rough days, it was better I brought up lighter topics like the most recent episode of The Flintstones. We would laugh about Fred’s pet Dino, he was her favorite character. Sometimes drivers would stare as they passed by. But we’d ignore them. And sometimes Mama would cut our conversation short, bringing me back inside. But I’ve been talking to Mrs. Duney for 12 years now and I'd say she is truly my best friend. 

One day, after talking to Mrs. Duney for what felt like an hour, Mama brought me inside and she asked who I was talking to out there. I told her about Mrs. Duney. I told Ma about her husband that passed away a few years back, her life when she was young growing up in Europe, and how her mother died after suffering Encephalitis lethargica, or the sleepy sickness in 1920. I told Mama about Mrs.Duney’s journey to America at 45 years old and fell in love with the man of her dreams. I told her about her adopted son and his success in welding. I told her about her dog Lucy, and her cat Norah, and how they never get along. About how Mrs. Duney believes she can talk to her pets and they understand the words she says. I think they really do!

Mama shook her head, brought her arm out, wrapped her hand around my head, and pulled me into a tight hug. I felt the warmth of her body begin to spread to the tips of my fingers. Her long, unclipped nails grazed my back up and down in a calming, soothing motion. Her dry-smelling perfume surrounded our bubble of safety. In her arms, I feel protected. Nothing can hurt me. Something drops onto my face. A teardrop had fallen from my mama's eyes, cooling the heat of my blushed cheek. I release myself from her grip and hold her shoulders between my hands. I look into her eyes, pooling with apologies. 

“What's wrong Mama?” I asked in a concerned tone, “You thinkin’ about Pa, again?”

She closed her eyes and continued to shake her head from side to side. Ma took a step backward and reached behind her back as if pulling out something stuffed in the ties of her apron. An envelope.

I took the envelope from her hand and looked at the words written on the front. From the O’Brian family. Papa’s Christmas card. How does she have this?

“Mama, how many times have I told you not to read these? They’re going to make you sad! How did you even find this, it's from 6 months ago. Mama, I throw these out to protect you!”

“Baby, just open the letter.” She whispers, another tear falls from her cheeks.

“No! I don't want to read what makes you hurt.” I turn to throw it away in the trash. But she reaches out and grabs my wrist before it reaches the aluminum can. 

“Just read it,” Her eyes are no longer filled with apologies, and are rather serious. I swallow the bad taste in my mouth as I flip the envelope around and tear it open. Inside reveals a letter from HarperCollins publishing company. I begin to read. Tears fill my eyes and fall just as Mama’s did. When I finish I return my gaze to Ma. She's standing in the kitchen, knelt over the chair, her head buried into her arms. 

“Ma, how come you’ve never shown me this?” My emotions fell from sad to anger.

“Baby, how could I show you that? As soon as they publish your book, you’ll be done with the story. All your friends will disappear. I will disappear.”

“What are you talking about?” My shoulders pinched back, my head straight forward and my eyebrows frowned in frustration. 

“Robbie, I’m not here. Mrs. Duney? She’s not there.”

Mama had me sit down at the table with her as she tried to explain everything. My hands in hers, my eyes too frozen to move from the grains in the wood, below my arms. My heart soon falls from my chest and in an instant of understanding, I look up assuming to meet my eyes with hers but is instead found with an empty chair. My hands are empty and cold. 

“Mama?” Tears of disbelief refill my eyes. “Mama?”

I get up in a rush, knocking my chair back into the wall. My lips quiver as I whisper her name under my breath. “Mama come back. Mama, I need you.” 

I run throughout the house, throwing doors open, and pushing over piles of unfinished stories, and baskets of uncleaned laundry. But she’s nowhere to be seen. I ran outside and down the street. “Mrs. Duney!” I run up to her porch and bang on her front door.” Mrs. Duney!” I scream and bang again. “Mrs. Duney!” I run over to the window to knock once more until my eyes are met with a For Rent sign posted against the glass. 

“No, no, no, no, no…” I repeat refusing my lonely place in this world. A pound in my chest rushes a burst of sickness, and my stomach falls ill. My breath is no longer shaky releases of fear but rather long strides gasping for air. My friends are gone, my mama’s gone. The love I have is gone. My air is gone. My world is gone. This world that I have created in my mind is disappearing revealing this disgusting world of emptiness and disaster. A world of poverty, a world of judgment. A world of hurting and harming and losing and forgetting. I couldn't move on from the stories I wrote because in a world of disaster, I found beauty and I found peace. I found my mama again after losing her fifteen years following the split of my parents. I imagined a neighbor with a lively soul and a heart of gold. I tricked my brain into believing these publishing acceptance letters were evil letters of jealousy and betrayal. 

I walked back to my empty home. My body fell heavier and heavier with every step. I slammed the door behind me, as mud trailed through the house following my dragged feet. I made my way through the kitchen, kicking trash even further under the refrigerator until I reached the bedroom where I laid face down on my pillow. I turned my head towards where Mama’s bed once was. I observed her quilt, neatly tucked under the ripped yellowed mattress. She was so real. So present. But now I realize that she was just a false reality. I blink, and my eyes are instead met with a wall of bookshelves, and boxes filled to the brim with my childhood belongings. I get to my feet and stumble over to the box, where I sat down and began to dig into the dust-covered items. Photo albums of family portraits, my school yearbook photos, and even pictures of Mama and Papa before I was born, were all compiled into a large binder. I opened the page to a picture of Mama at her wedding. She had the biggest smile. Her hair was so dark before it went gray. She’s almost unrecognizable. I can feel her happiness through her grin. I reached into the translucent page and slid the photograph out. I grabbed a pin outside of the corkboard above my bed and pinned it in the center. Mama will never be gone. I can still see her whenever I want. But like Mama whispered in her last words, I need to move on. 

***

One year later, my book is now published. After attending meetings, working with editors, and signing contracts, the HarperCollins publishing company took on my book, Stories About Mama. While I was in New York, I interviewed with Publishers Weekly and they asked me about my story, how I came up with the characters, and how long it took to write the book. And the interviewer took it by surprise when I told him about the past 13 years. How I wrote the book based on my Mama, back when I was young when she was still in my life. I also explained the character Mrs. Duney, a fictional character, and my inspiration for her. And when he asked why it took me so long to finish the story, I struggled to get him to understand that when you create these characters in your head, and truly fall in love with them, it’s as if they are real people in your life. I talked about my life growing up, about my parents' split and the death of my mother. I explained how I didn’t have a family that loves me dearly like most kids do growing up. How I didn’t and still don’t live in a neighborhood with fancy houses, and friendly neighbors. My life has been an Everlong loveless event. But with these characters I finally found love. And when you find love in an empty world, why would you let it go?

After all this time, I thought publishing this book would be like moving on from the people I loved. Like when you close the book you're reading, you remove yourself from a whole other world that only lives on a piece of paper. But I believed Mama deserved more. She doesn’t belong on a page, she deserves to be here, with me. With my love. So, I was afraid to close the book. But I have concluded that finishing the book wasn’t ending Mama’s story, but just letting her story begin. Now people all over the world are reading these stories about Mama. People are falling in love with the character of Mama, and are experiencing the love she gave just as I did growing up. I don't feel like I betrayed her by finishing the book. But rather taking her on this journey of opportunity with me. What Mama had always wanted for me? Not only am I making her proud by following my dreams, but she’s walking in my footsteps every step of the way.