Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Regardless, every time we get together, a simple smile from her can pack quite the emotional punch because I didn’t get them growing up. It’s truly fucked up how much I love those scraps of attention from her, and I’m glad I have my dad there to keep me grounded in reality.
“Mom,” I call out, and she jolts, turning my way from an antique store display.
Her smile widens and she rushes to me, arms open. We hug and I relish it, even though I still have that tiny, dark niggling at the back of my mind that this isn’t real. Not in the way my father hugs me. Not real in the way he shows me love and devotion on a daily basis.
My mom’s hug comes with too many doubts and it feels foreign, but I also give myself permission to let it feel good to have it for now.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” she gushes, pulling back to study my face. “Is it my imagination, or are you letting your hair grow a little?”
Reaching up, I brush my fingers through one side. “Maybe. I haven’t had time to get it cut lately. We’ll see.”
“Well, you’re beautiful regardless how you wear your hair.”
My mom draws away, looking at me expectantly, wondering how I’ll react to her compliment.
While it seems sweet on the outside, part of me knows it’s forced. When we first reconnected about five years ago—and by reconnected, I mean her making efforts to want to see me—we had several uncomfortable get-togethers where she criticized everything about me. My clothes, my hair, my piercings, and my tattoos.
All the things that reminded her of my dad.
She’d say things like, “I can’t believe you’d tattoo yourself up like your father,” or “Did your dad pick out that outfit?”
It galls her that every bit of me is my dad, and she envies how close we are. She hates our relationship, which is ironic since the reason we’re so close is that she left. My mom can’t reconcile it because every great quality he exhibits does nothing but shine a spotlight on her failures. She attacked me on outward appearances to make herself feel better.
At least, that’s what I surmised as I tried to figure out this woman.
Regardless, I had to set a boundary with her. “I’m an adult, Mom. You have no say in how I do anything with my life, which includes how I choose to dress or how I look.”
She didn’t get it at first and thought that the mere fact she spent ten hours in labor with me gave her the right to offer what she termed as “advice” but was blatant criticism. It’s only when I stopped accepting her invitations to lunch that she decided to live by my boundaries.
So now I get compliments that sound legitimate, but there’s still that look in her eyes that tells me she doesn’t mean it deep down. I remind myself that she doesn’t know how to be a mom. She’s been so bad at it her other two daughters have cut her completely out of their lives, and it’s for that exact reason I’ve opened the door and let her back in. I feel sorry for her.
I’ve been craving Mexican, so I chose a good restaurant I’ve dined at several times before. And since I’m the one who’s footing the bill, I get to choose. My mom is as unemployed as she ever was, relying on Randy to pay her bills.
Once we’re seated with chips and salsa and a margarita for my mom, she asks the obligatory, “How is your father doing?”
“He’s doing great.” And I offer no more.
Still, she pokes, asking if he’s dating, how his tattoo shop is doing, things like that. I give vague answers and eventually, she gives up.
“And how are you?” she asks, plucking a tortilla chip with an expertly manicured nail. I give myself my own manicures, not because I can’t afford to get them done, but because I like the routine of it.
“I’m good,” I say, swirling a chip in the salsa. “Super busy, but that’s par for the course. Actually, busier than usual. Harlow invited some Titans players last week for a charity event, and it brought in a ton of new patrons.”
My mom’s eyes sparkle and she leans forward, wrapping her lips around the straw in her drink and taking a long sip. “Harlow’s the friend who’s dating the hockey player, right?”
“She’s an attorney,” I say, because I don’t like Harlow being identified by her significant other. “But yes, she’s seeing Stone Dumelin.”
In fact, Stone pulled me aside the other night and told me he was going to propose soon and wanted to get with me on some ideas. It was hard to keep a straight face and not scream with happiness.