Patch Up
“I didn’t know it was this small,” my mother says with some kind of weird fascination I can’t explain. With both my parents in the room, it feels even smaller than it really is. The tall, athletic frame of my father at the window takes in every single thing. He’s frowning; making his bluish-grey eyes—the ones I inherited—appear darker than they are. His gaze brushes my bare side of the room and compares it with Kate’s. His thin lips are not smiling anymore. My mother is more focused on my desk, which is neatly organized with my textbooks and papers next to my laptop. Her light brown, frizzy hair—but tamer than mine—is shorter than the last time I saw her during winter break. She’s also wearing more make-up and she looks younger with the sparkle of delight in her eyes. “I told you,” I answer with a smile, remembering the first time I saw the room last semester and called her to tell her how tiny the place was. She didn’t really believe me then. “You didn’t put anything personal out.”
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