on being enough

It was 1 pm and Mom was sitting on the edge of my bed, still wearing her pajamas—charcoal gray leggings and an old t-shirt that said “Joe Cool” across the front. She was talking about how she needed to find a new show to watch because she already binged herself through the last one. When she’s not working or helping me around the house, she streams shows on her phone—sometimes for full days at a time. And ya know what? That’s fine if that’s the kind of life she wants but I can’t help but think of her when she lived in California and she always had a steady stream of people following after, catering to her every whim and flocking to her like wasps to honey. Now I wonder and I worry, isn’t she lonely? Isn’t she bored? How can she feel fulfilled?

I asked her today if this is how she wants to spend the little free time she has of her one life. I wasn’t trying to judge or guilt her into being productive or living differently. I wanted to make sure that it was a choice she was intentionally making and that it was a choice she WANTED and not just something she was doing to pass the time or escape the life she’s built here.

“Is there anything else you want out of life?” I said.
“I have everything I want,” she said, running her fingers through her dark curls. “I’m here with you.”
“And that’s enough?”
Without a pause, she said, “It’s everything.”

My whole life I felt like I was never enough for her. I knew she loved me, but she always needed more—more drugs, more friends, more excitement, more, more, more. And now all she has is me and she says it’s enough. I’m enough. More than enough.

“It’s everything.”