My mother could make an entire conversation out of one of my exam scores.
I sometimes heard her from the hallway, her voice brightening as she mentioned my name. I would pause before going in. She sounded so pleased with the daughter she was describing that I wanted to hear a little more about her.
One evening, I stood there with an empty glass while she spoke on the phone. She mentioned the score quietly, as though lowering her voice made it less of a boast. I moved closer.
There was a little laugh, then a pause while the other woman spoke. I couldn't hear the compliment, but I could hear my mother accepting it. The glass grew warm in my hand.
At school, a good score brought recognition from teachers and a certain standing among the other girls. It was harder to be brushed aside when there was a number to point to. Here, I liked what it did to my mother's voice. I had given her something she was reluctant to stop talking about.
Had she said these things to me, I would have shrugged and told her the exam was easy. From the hallway, I could enjoy them without having to decide what to do with my face. I stood there a little longer, trying out her opinion of me.
Then she began asking after the other woman's family. I waited, in case the conversation found its way back.
When the call ended, I went in and filled my glass. My mother was still buoyant from the conversation.
I had meant to ask what she'd said about me.
I took a sip of water and asked whether her friend's daughter was pleased with her results.