A Song for Julia

I was going to make my own home.
    As I zipped the bag closed, I heard someone in the doorway and turned around.
    It was her.
    Apprehensive, I stood and faced my mother. She swallowed, didn’t speak, and I realized she was just as nervous about talking to me as I was with her.
    “I just …” she started. Then stopped. I waited. Was she going to say something horrible? Try to deny things? Was she going to tell me to not come back if I left? I didn’t know. My mother … she was a complete mystery to me. That might be the saddest part of all. I had no idea who she was.
    Finally, she spoke again. “I came up here to say … I’ve heard you. And I’ve not been the best mother in the world. I wish I had been. I wish … I could have given you what you needed, Julia. And I hope someday you can forgive me.”
    And then my mother did something I’d never seen her do before. She started to cry. It was a half-formed sound, weak and yet very painful.
    I know the human thing would be to go to her and hug her, and tell her I forgave everything. I know I should have done that. I did reach out and take one of her hands. And I squeezed it gently, and I whispered, “You’re still my mother. I love you.”
    She nodded and tried to sniff back her tears. And then she turned and went down the hall.
    I turned back to my bag. And I finished stuffing my things in it, and zipped it up, and walked out. I left the bracelets and bangles on the dresser.
    Dad met me on the ground floor, and we got in the van together. The streets were empty. It was still Christmas Day, and the roads might fill up later in the evening, but for now we had the road to ourselves as he headed toward the airport.
    We were silent at first. After a little while, he said, “Your mother told me … what you said.”
    I swallowed and looked out the window.
    “For what it’s worth, Julia. You’re my daughter. And I’ve not said it enough … well, really, I’ve not said it at all. But I’m proud of you.”
    I swallowed back tears. “Thank you, Dad.”
    “When you’re finished in Germany and finish school, I hope you’ll think about us. And come visit.”
    I nodded. “Of course. Just … do me a favor?” I asked.
    “Anything,” he said.
    “Just … try to be there for my sisters, okay? I get it. I was the oldest, and you guys were going through a lot, and … I don’t know. But they need you.” I paused, breathed in a little. “They need you. Okay?”
    In a low voice, full of sadness, he said, “I promise. I’ll try.”
    We were silent for a long while. He finally turned on to the interstate, and a couple of minutes later, he said, “You should know … it’s not all your mother’s fault.”
    I looked over at him, and he continued.
    “I met your mom in Spain. It was 1971, and I was in my first posting. Not much older than you are now, and not nearly as smart or together as you are. Adelina’s mother owned a flower shop in Barcelona, and I met her at a coffee shop just down the street from the embassy. I was practicing my Spanish, and she wanted to practice her English, and … well, we fell in love. She was full of light in those days. Do you know, my father disinherited me when we got married?”
    “What?” I said. “No.”
    “He did. He changed his mind after you were born. But for a while there, several years, we thought we’d be living off what I made as a junior attaché. Which was enough. We had a nice little apartment, and we loved each other. That was all that mattered.”
    I tried to picture my dad, living off a junior attaché’s salary, young, in love. It didn’t fit anything that made sense to me.
    “What happened?”
    He shrugged. “Life. Stress. Right after you were born, I was assigned to Libya, which was a hardship post, and your mother stayed here in San Francisco with you. That was three years. We grew distant over the years and fought a lot. More than I think you realize. Our life…it wasn’t what either one of us expected. And then we both had affairs. It made your mother … bitter. Very angry. It’s taken a long time for us to trust again.”
    I stared at my dad in shock. He knew about her.
    “You knew?”
    He nodded. “Not long after you left for college, and it was looking like I’d never get another post, your mom and I went into therapy together. To try to work through some of it.”
    He looked at me, and his eyes were sad. “I guess that was too late for you.”
    I looked back at him, bewildered,