This definitely isn’t how I imagined the night ending.
I pull out my phone and check my messages. There are a bunch of texts congratulating me on today’s win and a few asking where I’m partying tonight. I delete them all, stopping only when I see a message from my mom.
Mom: You played well today. I’m so proud of you.
Just not proud enough to show up.
Anger sparks deep in my chest, a smoldering flame that’s never truly extinguished.
It’s not her fault. I know it on a cerebral level, but it doesn’t take the sting off the fact that in four years, she hasn’t attended a single game.
Don’t be a dick. She’d be here if she could.
I drag in a steadying breath and slowly exhale. The paper liner on the exam table crinkles when I shift, loud and abrasive in the quiet room.
Me: Thanks.
It’s short and to the point, but it’s been a long day and I’m tapped. My head is throbbing like a motherfucker, and I don’t have the energy to pretend everything is fine or that it doesn’t hurt that my own parents can’t be bothered to come watch me play ball.
Mom: Your father’s town hall went well today.
She knows I don’t give a shit about his dog and pony show. It’s her way of letting me know why she couldn’t attend the game. Why he wouldn’t let her.
Not that it matters.
If it wasn’t the town hall, it would’ve been something else.
Mom: Just a few more weeks and we can put this election behind us.
Until next time.
She doesn’t say it, but she doesn’t have to. If re-elected, this will likely be his last term in the Senate. We both know he’s got bigger aspirations. Which is why it’s so important to keep his image as a family man intact.
Mom hates campaign season as much as I do. All the smiling and faking it for the cameras. Meeting strangers and pretending to be the perfect wife to the perfect husband.
What a joke.
Me: Did you talk to him about Senior Day?
I don’t know why I even asked.
Because you’re a glutton for punishment.
They aren’t going to come. They didn’t come to my first game. Why would they come to my last?
Mom: Have you spoken with your professors about election day?
My pulse quickens, and I grip the phone more tightly as I reread the message.
Mom: Your father promised that if you join us at the hotel on election day, we’ll be able to take a day off to come see your game.
His word isn’t worth shit.
He doesn’t keep campaign promises, so why would he keep a promise to his family?
The prospect of having my mom by my side on Senior Day is a powerful lure, and the bastard knows it. He always knows where to apply pressure. What lies to tell.
What words to twist.
