Caught in a jigsaw life with a missing piece

MY forehead aches from the position of my furrowed eyebrows.

I viciously click the end of my pen backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards.

Seven years and only now does my so called mother decide to contact me.

Seven emails in the past two months — does she think that will make up for it all? Does she think I miss her?

Far out, the only reason I’m about to reply is so that she might leave me alone.

Her emails are crammed full of soppy ‘‘I’m sorrys’’, and ‘‘I want to try make it up to you’’.

She even has the nerve to offer me money and a car. It makes my nose twitch.

All she’s doing is recalling all those draining hours I spent wondering why I wasn’t good enough.

All those questions I had that left me feeling worthless. The whys, the how could yous?

But I am really getting sick of these pleas.

So today I will reply briefly stating that my life now is great, my new family loves me and I have everything I could ever want.

Maybe she’ll get the message.

Two weeks later, my inbox is constantly full.

I regularly remind her that I am happy.

But with her emails, it has made me wonder, am I really happy?

My family are perfect, but I feel like something is missing — like a piece of my own jigsaw has been removed.

No, it’s not. No, it hasn’t.

It’s just my hormones.

Like I said, I have everything I could ever want, right?

She wants to meet me.

I’ve been staring at the email for 36 minutes and 28 seconds.

She wants to meet up with me. I knew I shouldn’t have replied. I knew this was a bad idea. Adults always want something.

What am I going to do? She has no right to suddenly come back into my life.

Seven years worth of birthdays, Christmases, boyfriends.

Where the heck was she for that? Why the heck should she be here now?

Nope, there is no way I am ever going.

Closing my laptop, I go downstairs to have dinner with my family — my real family.

I stare at the ceiling. Rolling on to my side I catch a glimpse of my clock. 2.34am.

My mind will not leave that email. I feel like I’ve been too harsh.

She is trying and I will admit, I think she is that missing jigsaw piece.

Maybe I should see her. Maybe I shouldn’t.

My mind goes round and round in a continuous never ending cycle of questions.

But the one thing that keeps sticking, just one chance. One chance and if she blows it, what have I lost.

But you see, that’s the thing. I’m afraid of her blowing it.

Peoplewatching has always been my relaxation, and today I need anything to stop the sweat building up in my quivering hands.

Sitting at the Starbucks on the corner of Jubilee St, I see a tall important looking business woman march towards the cafe.

Her eyes are wide, she’s fiddling with the keys in her hands.

I make up stories as to why she’s acting this way.

Was she caught cheating on her husband? Maybe her boss called her in for an unexpected meeting?

The possibilities are endless and that’s what I love about people watching.

The woman carries on past, then stops and looks up from her trance.

A few minutes later, she orders a triple shot Americano.

The waiter asks for her name as they always do.

Her answer makes my bones shudder. ‘‘Francesca. But just write Fran.’’

Francesca. My mother’s name. My head refuses to turn in her direction.

My heart turns into an acrobat. My stomach turns into a cocoon.

The door on the other side of the room beckons me.

I run.

I knew I couldn’t handle it.