As a therapist, I would say she’s an individual with an enflamed ego, narcissistic tendencies, and avoidant attachment. In layman’s terms, she’s an asshole, plain and simple. And that makes it really hard to appreciate everything good about her.
“So, anyway, extra guests and a million sugar cookies no one wants...” Her voice trails like her point is crystal clear, and I make a mental note to eat as many sugar cookies as I possibly can today. No need to offend Brenda. I like her even if she is a bit needy and sensitive.
“You know, if Austin and Emily just decided to find out the sex at the ultrasound and text everyone, this would be a lot easier,” I offer, bringing the steaming coffee to my lips and taking a sip.
Mom lets out a condescending laugh. “Oh, dear, this is how they do it these days. I suppose you wouldn’t understand,” she says, and I grit my teeth. How dare I not be married and have a baby by thirty? “Oh, but can you pick up the cake for me?”
“Sure. What bakery?”
“Lil’ Cupcake.”
“Fantastic.” I make a mental note.
“I’m glad you flew out for this. It means a lot to your sister. Hell, it’ll be good for you to see what it looks like to start a familywith a mortgage and a steady income,” Mom tosses in, and I frown.
“I do have a steady income.” I sip my coffee.
“Oh yes. Talking to other people’s kids about their feelings.” She huffs out a laugh.
Meanwhile, I bite my tongue so hard I taste metal. I take a breath, settling my anger. “Mom, that’s hurtful.”
She makes an audible tsk over the line.
Sometimes she’s impossible to communicate with. “I’m trying to keep the air clear between us.”
“No, you’re trying to pick a fight.”
“I’m communicating my feelings—”
“Oh, blah, blah, blah, Julia. I made a joke. You took offense. I’m not going to pussyfoot on your eggshell feelings. Maybe this is how you can talk to your patients but in the real world, it won’t work.”
I inhale deeply.
“You use your little tactics you teach other people’s parents, and it won’t work for me. I won’t be manipulated.”
“Therapy isn’t manipulation.”
She laughs.
“We need to end this conversation,” I say. Mom and I walk a fine line—a boundary we can no longer breach because we won’t be able to come back from it.
“Fine. But Steven was right there, ready for you.”
“Mom, he cheated on me—that’s not exactly a glowing precursor for marriage.”
“It was a mistake. You should have seen him, Julia. He was broken for months,” she reasons.
“So was I, Mom.”
The line falls silent. I know she loves him and respects him as her agent and friend, but I’m her daughter. I wish she had sided with me on this one.
“And it’s hard for me to watch you almost have it all and it not work out,” she adds more gently this time. I hear a glimmer of guilt in her voice and I let the comment rest between us for a moment.
“Well, maybeyoushould have married him,” I counter sarcastically, and she laughs genuinely. I blow out a breath. I made her laugh. The child in me rejoices and I know this is where we need to end the conversation: on a meaningless, sarcastic joke. “All right, well, I’ll see you later, okay?”
“Oh, and I needed to tell you something...” She draws it out like I’m fragile. “Steven will be at the party.”
“Great.” My tone is flat.
