Sometimes people surprise me. The surprise doesn’t come like a present, wrapped in a full, blossoming bow of carefully chosen ribbon, but more like a good recipe, not particularly intriguing at its outset. The act is cobbled together from everyday ingredients, mostly staples and none purchased in the “ethnic” food aisle. Little is canned.

We think we know the people closest to us, how they’ll react to any given situation. My father would generally buck any decision based on a heavy dose of emotion. A linear man, he preferred graph paper to journals and tried and true laws to the abstract. Physics built his base, the world in which he thrived. Consistency was a plus of knowing him, of existing in his world. It translated well to his relationships. As well as it could, I guess. You always knew just what you were getting, no grudges, no frills, no rumination attached.

My mother is an entirely different animal. I was built according to the specs she came with, a much more inconsistent and unpredictable model. Emotion sets her agenda, as it does mine. Interpersonal hurt sometimes feels fatal, a toxic combination of our own shortcomings and an inability to see the grey in situations. But every once in a while we don those thickest of glasses, those that allow us to see beyond seemingly infallible equations, no matter how faulty their logic.

I was thinking mostly of rejection when I called to admit a stupid mistake, suddenly an independent adult reduced to brassy blonde pigtails. I rehearsed the conversation with friends, failing to admit the sweaty palms it gave me. She is my worst fear, after all, this complicated woman I love to my core, along with my greatest joy. We dance as a well-rehearsed twosome, as you might expect. It’s anyone’s guess just how many of the missteps are pre-programmed, dictated by three decades of rehearsal.

I made a mistake, I told her. And she promptly failed to live up. She failed the very expectation of the expected, the judgment, the scorn, the unintentional alienation to which I just as honestly contribute. In a moment of complete selflessness, my mother was just as I wanted her to be: accepting, concerned, lacking personal investment beyond her title. I was her daughter, nothing more, a woman capable of both informed decisions and tremendous error. And for some reason just being me sufficed, stupidity and all. Being human paid off without the usual promise of improvement. Nothing needed, nothing lacking. Everything complete. Life is beautiful in its surprises.