At 4 am, She Calls for Comfort (Bisexual Flash Fiction)

Musical Selection: Doja Cat|Woman

Part III: She’s stretching herself in all directions for her daughter

A woman stretching for legs far away from each other while lying on the floor.
Photo by Oksana Taran on Unsplash

Today, I will give her the space she needs to talk about Bree’s graduation invitation, her current need to want to get clean, and perhaps a future for us. Today, I will learn about this woman a bit more — the one who ripped my heart out almost a year ago but hasn’t left me alone since. There is a reason for all of this. There is always a reason for everything, yes? Today, I will be the listener she needs — the shoulder with everlasting comfort.

Tomorrow will bring whatever it will bring, and I will be ready for it, too


Cari devours her breakfast. She is adamant about consuming delicious, home-cooked meals. We almost never ate out. In the past, she would say, “Rena, whatever you make, I will eat it.” And she did. There had never been a meal of mine I cooked, she did not eat. She had been more than pleased to inflate my culinary ego, and I fell into every compliment as quickly as I could. This woman — the woman I loved and still love, the woman whose body I pressed my palms onto, massaging every ache away … she has returned. What will I do? What can I do?

“I still can’t believe Bree sent me an invitation to her graduation. I haven’t seen her in so long, Rena. God, how will I react when I see her?”

“I don’t know, Cari. The graduation is in, what? A little more than a week? How about you take it day by day, and when we get there, you react however your heart implores you to act.”

I look at her searching my eyes for more answers. The sunlight from one of my windows in the kitchen kisses her right cheek gently. She glows. Even though her beauty shines through undeniably, I recognize the pain in her eyes. The pain of a mother who will go above and beyond for her daughter. An addict reaching out to the heavens to get clean for the possibility of new love in the future. It has only been three days, and she’s stretching herself in all directions for her daughter.

“You’re right, Rena. I mean … You’ve always been right about most shit.”

“I’m not trying to be right, love. I’m just saying what I’m saying. There’s no need to agonize over what you will do when the day isn’t even here yet.”

I slide another cup of coffee in front of her. She grips the mug with a mighty force. I watch her as the hot liquid slips down her throat. We’re going to be okay with this. We are.


Her accent meets my ears in a way I am accustomed to it doing, but this morning, it’s different. I can sense the pain in her voice — the unknowingness that comes with reuniting with one’s daughter — especially for someone who is an addict yearning to become sober. Cari had already contacted one of the addiction and drug rehab centers in our area prior to mentioning it to me. She had an appointment with a licensed professional who would assess her upon their first meeting and go from there.

That she had taken these steps informs me she is serious — truly serious about reconnecting with Sabrina and getting sober. The old Cari would mention getting clean and then five days later, I’d find her strung out in an alley near Shoaf Blvd passed out at 3 in the morning. Cari’s phone rings just as soon as we’re done eating, and it’s Bree. My entire body tenses up because I recall the last real conversation they had and how much it tortured Cari. I listen intently.

The room is silent and each word she utters bounces off the walls and echoes back to us. She ends the call with tears in her eyes and says not to me, but to the air in front of us or around us — she was not looking at me.

“Ze maakt me zo van streek!”

I pause. I walk over to her slowly and gently pull her into my arms. I don’t have a clue what had been said — I don’t speak Dutch, but the tone … the tone showed anger? Sadness? Both?

“She makes me so angry, Rena. So angry. But how? How can she make me so angry and I still love her so much?”

Not being a mother myself, I am perplexed. I do not feel qualified to answer this question. I continue to hold her. I continue to let her vent and cry. I say what I am thinking.

“Please tell me you have not been uninvited to the graduation.”

“No … Worse. She doesn’t want you there.”


We stood in silence. Teardrops from her big, bold, and dark eyes fell onto my hands. I danced in a circle as I held her close to me. Our breaths pushed from our chests and forced us to stay in sync with one another. How will we deal with this? I don’t yet know, but what I know is this … we have a chance at a new beginning, and daughter or not, I will stand guard against Sabrina if I have to. I won’t watch her break her mother’s heart for a second time.

Once was enough.


Doja Cat, Woman, December 2021

Part I and Part II

©2022 Tremaine L. Loadholt Originally published in Prism & Pen via Medium.

I just realized I had not shared the first two parts with you all. I hope this will help you get caught up here. Part I and Part II are above. Peace and blessings.

Dr. Tiffany Jana: A Powerful Voice for All People

Dr. Tiffany Jana

I follow her on Medium as well as LinkedIn. I do so because her voice is a powerful one, and she advocates for self-love, self-care, anti-racism, and anti-ableism, among some other important causes near and dear to me.

I am not big on listening to podcasts or watching a large number of TED Talk videos, but I do enjoy her videos and her memoirist-like essays that have been featured all over the internet.

She is a FORCE, y’all. And I am here for it!

Mothers, I Celebrate You

The workaholic
Who never has enough sleep
Cares for everyone

Undeniable
My gift to you is this love
Your existence saves

Mothers, God bless you
You bloom when we all wither
Weeping willows sing


Happy Mother’s Day to those of you who are mothers, those of you mothering others who are not your own, caretakers and rescuers and do-gooders. Thank you for who you are and what you do. I celebrate you.

A Snapshot

Jernee, The Little Monster, fast asleep.

The #dog sleeps soundly on a Saturday night, dreaming about God only knows what. My neighbor pulls up to our building–blasts his music for us to hear. I’m not opposed, it’s a tune I can bop my head to.

I spent a couple hours video-chatting with my younger cousin and watching her beautiful smile act as its own form of luminescence. There was no other place I wanted to be than in that moment, #connecting with her about the mundane acts of life–laughing about the calamities found in aging and ailments.

We discuss the inevitability of my little monster’s impending demise, and if I’ll get another dog immediately after or opt to get one soon so as to have another form of support on standby. Of course, I’ll get another dog. But I want her to enjoy her life being the spoiled, “only child” until she’s no more.

Oddly enough, I look at this adorable ball of fur, and all I feel is love. All I feel IS loved.

That is a beautiful thing.


Originally shared via LinkedIn.


**Since Chrissy’s passing, her children have reached out to me for deeper, closer relationships, and I needed this. I’d always been around for their growth–but their mom had my full and complete attention. They would get the occasional text or phone call. Now, it’s almost as if I’ve gained two more younger siblings, but it is Victoria with whom I sense a stronger bond will emerge. I see so much of Chrissy in her and she sees so much of her mom in me too. It is simply a joy to share these moments with them–with her. We are making beautiful memories. Beautiful memories, indeed.

NaPoWriMo #15

The Last Poem (Revised)

“this is the last poem
I will write for you.”
and as the words leave my mouth
I know I am lying, that
when it comes to you, truth
is hard.

I tell myself one thing
I do another.
I could have been a painter,
spreading the colors of you
onto the fibers of the canvas
while you blend in perfectly.

Every flaw you point out
as insufferable and odd have
become my favorites:
your hair, your nose, and the
way your bottom lip quivers
when you try to explain something
difficult.

I see no wrong in you.
I believe this is why
we will not make it,
why we could not,
and I believe you hate me
for being blind to your
view of you.

I say again, “this is the last poem
I will write for you”
and you smile, tilt your face
to the sky, and pull my hand
to your heart.
You purse your lips together
and utter a revelation,
“that’s a lie and you know it.”

And you’re right.