“Miriam, I remember when you were just a little girl,” one of my aunts says. Henrietta, I think? “Your mom couldn’t stop bragging enough about you. A real genius in our family. Can you imagine?”
My smile stiffens until it feels like it could crack right down the middle and tumble off my face.
“We’re so proud of her. It’s not every day a child enters college at sixteen and graduates with not one but two degrees with honors,” Mom practically crows, squeezing my arm and beaming down at me.
My stomach pitches, bile scrambling for the back of my throat.
“What are you doing now, Miriam? With all those smarts, changing the world, no doubt,” an uncle chimes in with a chuckle that grates over my sensitized skin. Over the exposed, aggravated nerves under it.
“I—”
“She runs a marketing company with her brother and sister,” Mom interrupts, answering for me, probably afraid I will spill the beans about our unseemly breakup-service company.
Because apparently my brain can be trusted to grapple with the Collatz conjecture but not remember that less than five minutes ago, she told me to keep my mouth shut about BURNED.
Typical.
Even though I’m twenty-seven years old, my mother still treats me like a fragile specimen that needs to be coddled and handled with care. Was it any wonder I went to college and—
No, dammit. That’s not fair.
But in this moment, when she still refuses to let me beme, I struggle to give two fucks about fair.
“For a while there, I thought she would follow me into teaching. Can you imagine sharing her love and knowledge of mathematics with all these younger minds?” She shakes her head, as if the waste of my potential, my career path, just saddens her. “But what can you do? As parents, we support our children and their decisions.”
“Oh.” My uncle frowns down at me. “That’s too bad. We need more women, especially Black women, in education. And in STEM.”
And I’ve officially had enough.
It’s one thing to have my mother offer her unsolicited and uninformed opinion on my life. But it’s a completely different thing to have the peanut gallery of the unknown-until-today distant relatives weigh in with their not-so-subtle disapproval.
“It was wonderful reminiscing and seeing you again.” I untangle my arm from Mom’s and sweep a general smile around the circle. “If you’ll excuse me.”
I turn and walk away, not offering an explanation to Mom or them about where I need to go or why. Yes, it’s borderline rude. But if their manners don’t extend to not criticizing me as if I’m not standing there in front of them, then my etiquette has limits too.
And I need a drink.
Desperately.
Five minutes later, plastic cup of champagne in hand, I take a long sip, but the anger and, yes, sense of betrayal still bubble like golden wine teasing my nose.
“Love of mathematics,” I scoff. “She doesn’t know me at all.”
“Is this a private conversation, or do I need to be concerned that it’s a private conversation?”
I glance up, meeting Cyrus’s blue gaze. It’s on the tip of my tongue to give him a flippant comment about being in talks with the most intelligent person in the room. Instead I say, “I’m fucking brilliant at math. Like, scary brilliant. But it’s never been my passion. I’ve never loved it. How does she not know that? She’s my mother, for God’s sake.”
To his credit, he doesn’t blink or back away from the crazy person who just emotionally and verbally vomited all over him like a drunken coed.
Lifting a hand, he signals the bartender behind me. In seconds, he has another plastic cup in his hand, and he gently trades my champagne for his drink. One sniff, and the smoky aroma of whiskey teases my nose.
“Go on,” he softly urges. “Sip it. I’ll carry you out of here if I have to, but I’d rather not.”
“Such a gentleman,” I mutter, then do as he orders.
The whiskey burns a path down my throat, exploding in a ball of warmth in my chest and stomach.Wow.The bride and groom might’ve gone cheap with the flatware and cups, but they didn’t hold back on the alcohol. So good to see their priorities are in order. Maybe there’s hope for their marriage yet.
“It’s been my experience with people that they perceive what and who is most comfortable for them to see. Especially with their children or other family members. If anything threatens that perception—maturity, growth, even a death—they would rather be willfully blind and in denial than admit to that change.” He slides his hands into the front pockets of his pants and leans an elbow against the bar. “I admire your mother. She’s a strong, intelligent, caring woman who is passionate about her family and her job. She’s also a perfect example of what I’m talking about. I believe in my heart she doesn’t mean harm, butunfortunately, I think we both know intentions don’t mean shit when in the line of fire.”
