The hidden me…

The secretary stood at the door signaling in slow motion. She pretended to speak, mouthing a phrase.

I guessed, silently mouthing back, "Other?"
"No," she nodded.
She purposely pointed at me.
"You," I guessed.
She shook her head, "Yes."

Second word, two syllables.
I guessed, "Brother, mother--" "My mother," I said out loud, disrupting the meeting.
She nodded her head, "Yes."
"Your mother is here," she said

I walked into the hallway. My mother apologized for coming to my office. Her hands were busily searching through a plastic bag.
"Leah," she said, "Do you have a few dollars? Geoff and I ran out of gas. The car stopped in the middle of the street."
I was skeptical because nothing she says is true.
"All I have," I said, "are two dollars."
"That’s all?"

She handed me the plastic bag. It held a pair of jeans. "This is for Porshai. I told her that I had a pair of jeans for her birthday."

Unconsciously, I rushed her. I didn’t want any of my co-workers to see her. My mother is a representation of the old me and our family dysfunctions.

She is the part of me that I keep hidden.