The butterfly effect.

“In chaos theory, the butterfly effect is the sensitive dependence on initial conditions in which a small change in one state of a deterministic nonlinear system can result in large differences in a later state…the butterfly effect is derived from the metaphorical example of the details of a tornado being influenced by minor perturbations such as a distant butterfly flapping its wings several weeks earlier.”

I’ve written at length about painful upbringings, the little things we do to heal, and the peace of literally moving on.

This week, what feels like the finale of all three entries took place in the form of a conversation between mother and son that was 20 years in the making.

“Death with Dignity” by Sufjan Stevens plays in my mind when I think of this night. Feel free to pop it on while you read.

Just over a year ago, I made a stop during my break at work to try the coffee at a specialty café that had been the talk of the town. Long story short, I became a regular, I became friends with the staff, one befriended barista helped me connect with a landlord at the start of my apartment hunt, I applied for a studio, and I left the nest.

I’ve been living by myself for just about a month now and finally found the time to have my mom over for dinner. I picked her up on a quiet Friday evening and drove her to my place; she’s scared of one-way roads, so she doesn’t dare drive to me. I had a fridge full of hotpot goodies and a kitchen cabinet full of shin ramyun for us; hotpot dinners are always a communal time for my family that leaves space for conversation while we wait for the food to finish cooking.

“Spirit of my silence, I can hear you,
but I’m afraid to be near you,
and I don’t know, where to begin,
and I don’t know, where to begin.”

Upon arrival, she was immediately proud of my tidy little studio’s clean themes of black, white, and brown furniture and decor. I gave her the green light to nosily open my cabinets and judge my kitchenware. I opened the fridge to show her the result of many balanced grocery trips to ease her anxieties about me catching the illness known as “Boy Fridge.” Her smile widened with each corner she turned. Many enthused inquisitive words of surprise were said in her parental love language as I gave her a tour of my new home.

“Oh my goodness, he’s got a knife block. How much did you pay for this?!”

“Who else sleeps here? When will I meet your girlfriend? Find one so I can meet her!”

“Is this your rice cooker? It’s so cute.”

“You have a whole head of cabbage? Since when do you eat cabbage?”

“Where’d you get this dining table? You built it? You built everything?”

“Do your neighbors visit? Do you feed them?!”

“Somewhere in the desert, there’s a forest,
and an acre before us,
but I don’t know, where to begin,
but I don’t know, where to begin.”

I threw some classical music onto my Bluetooth speaker. With too much gochujang (Korean red chili paste) added to the giant hotpot of shin ramyun, veggies, and seafood, we safeguarded ourselves from a chilly autumn evening with a pleasant, spicy hotpot.

We chatted about how I’ve felt living in this quiet space. I told her I felt great, that I cook myself a hearty dinner every night and sleep like a baby after a long day. She looked at me from across the dining table with much pride as the reminiscent talk started flowing.

“You were so itty-bitty when I brought you home from the hospital,” my mom smiled, making a small measuring gesture with her hands.

“How much did I weigh? Six pounds?”

“Not even! Your aunt would say ‘there’s no telling when this one will grow’ when she’d see you in the little carriage.”

“Look at me now,” I said, having proudly kept to powerlifting for two years.

We shared a laugh before my mom continued.

“Does your aunt know you moved? She came by while you were moving. I didn’t tell her in case you didn’t want anyone knowing just yet.”

“Oh she knows. It’s totally fine for the family to know. I just didn’t want him to know,” I said, referring to her oldest who still lives with her. I never told him I was leaving the nest despite all the times we silently passed each other in the hallway of our mom’s home. “And he’s not welcome here either,” I declared.

“And I’ve lost my strength completely,
oh be near me,
tired old mare, with the wind in your hair.”

“Well, he still just wants the best for you,” she replied. The idea that he and I could reconcile remains a dream for her.

“He acts like he does because I’ve said next to nothing to him for almost four years now. He didn’t want the best for me when he was hitting me, strangling me, screaming at me, and convincing the family I was lying about everything he did to me.”

This conversation has been repeated for many years. When it reaches this point, my mom normally says something akin to “stop thinking like that” and “you two just aren’t going to see eye to eye.” This time, I spoke from the untouchable safety and confidence of my own home, and she listened with respectful silence. She didn’t interject with attempts to protect him like she normally does. She knew in this space of mine, I would speak freely and without pause.

“Amethyst and flowers on the table,
is it real or a fable?
Well I suppose a friend is a friend,
and we all know how this will end.”

“I never knew,” she said with a pained, motherly defeat in her eyes.

“How could anyone have known? I tried to tell the family for 20 years: behind closed doors with no witnesses, he’s not the same person with me. I tried to tell all of you, but he got to you all first. He does this to everyone. Every time I tried to call him out, he’d give me the silent treatment for months until I caved in and apologized for something he did. Now he’s panicking because I’ve given him the silent treatment for almost four years, so of course he’s gonna talk to you like he cares about me.”

I watched silent yet immeasurable guilt wash over her. I had taken an axe to the family closet that was my upbringing and revealed the skeleton inside, and I did it all matter-of-factly without a single plea for her acceptance or acknowledgment. I had been begging her to accept this truth for so long. Now, she had the reality of living in a lonely house with him over it. My move from her just to get away from him was no longer a bluff. We both knew this moment had been a long time coming. It would leave her deeply uncomfortable, yet she let me speak my truth, and yet I took the moment to validate her.

“Chimney swift that finds me, be my keeper,
silhouette of the cedar,
what is that song you sing for the dead?
what is that song you sing for the dead?
I see the signal searchlight strike me,
in the window, of my room,
well I got nothing to prove,
well I got nothing to prove.”

“I know it’s hard for you as a mom to watch us not get along. I just want you to ask what’s best for yourself and if that answer is letting him live with you for the next however many years. Even now, I have no resentment for anyone regarding any of this, not even him. I pay my bills, live my life, and sleep easy. Whether you believe him or me is your business, but he and I are done.”

My mom took it all in. She fought back tears. This was the first time I had ended the usual conversation by trying to validate her instead of hammering in who her oldest really was underneath all the pleasantries and bullshit. The weight of reality added to her shoulders, yet the guilt of not being able to protect her youngest lifted from them as I made it clear that I don’t blame anyone for all that’s happened.

“I forgive you mother, I can hear you,
and I long to be near you,
but every road leads to an end,
yes every road leads to an end.”

“Okay, so, I’ll come over for dinner now and then, yeah?”

“Absolutely.”

We tidied up the kitchen. I wouldn’t let her wash the dishes. The conversation became lighthearted again.

I drove her home and on her way out, she initiated the hug between us for the first time and told me to sleep well tonight. Hugging has only been in my family (and I’m talking the whole family tree) for maybe a decade. It’s a love language that my mom isn’t used to at all, but it said so much.

It was a hug that said, “I wish you were still here, I wish I could see my sons together, and I wish you left on better terms, but I’m happy you have your peace now.”

“Your apparition passes through me,
in the willows,
five red hens,
you’ll never see us again,
you’ll never see us again.”

As she opened the door to her home, waved goodbye to me, and closed the door behind her, I thought of everything that led up to this moment: the timing of the evening, the distance traveled from her home to mine, the quiet of the walk from my parking spot to the third floor, the ambience of people going about their lives traveling up to my open windows, the self I presented in this charming little space, the width of the dining table between us, the gas stove that cooked our meal so thoroughly, and every little thing that set the stage for me to present myself the way I did and in the place I did.

What if my apartment hunt had stretched past autumn, winter, and spring to drag into a hot summer that left us sweating and irritable at the dinner table?
What if money was tighter with a bigger apartment and I had to grab us some fast food instead of the slow hotpot we’ve bonded over throughout the years?
What if I lived on the first floor and we kept getting distracted by people walking by?
What if I didn’t have a coded door and my mom had spent the conversation nervous about someone breaking in?
What if I had been stressed out in a different space and couldn’t present myself the way I did?
What if I had chosen a different coffee shop?

I always tell people that I live my life with zero regrets because every decision I’ve made up to this point has made me who I am.

I wonder what little thing I’m doing now that’ll make all the difference in the future.

One thing’s for sure, I’m glad I decided against Starbucks that day.