The line goes quiet and I glance at the screen to confirm she’s still there.
When she finally speaks, her voice is dangerously low and syrupy sweet. “Excuse me?”
My stomach lurches and suddenly all those fruity cocktails feel like a bad decision.
If you don’t stand up to her now, you never will.
“I said no.” I draw a steadying breath. Perhaps this is the final test, my chance to prove to myself and everyone else that I’ve truly changed. That I’m not going to slide back into my old ways. “I don’t need you to find me a date.”
And even if I did, it certainly wouldn’t be Juda Brown. He made my life a living hell in high school, making fun of my clothes and calling me Scarface when I had acne.
“Fine. But don’t come crying to me when you’re sitting all alone and your cousins have respectable young men escorting them.”
I snort. If Juda Brown is her idea of respectable, I’m better off on my own. Besides, I couldn’t care less about having a date for Hannah’s wedding. Not when my heart feels like it’s been ripped out of my chest.
“Well, if you won’t let me find you an escort, at least let me get you a dress since fashion isn’t really your thing.” She forges ahead, as if I won’t register the insult if she keeps talking. “I found the sweetest A-line gown at Trudy’s. It’s got the most adorable little cap sleeves and it’s just the right shade of cornflower blue to bring out your eyes.”
She’s always said they’re my best feature. And if I don’t put an end to this, she’ll have me in contacts and full makeup and sky-high heels, looking like a miniature version of her.
“Mama, stop.” I grip the phone so hard it’s a wonder the screen doesn’t crack. “Just…stop.”
“Stop what?” She sighs and though we’re separated by more than one hundred miles, the weight of her disappointment settles over me. “Being your mother? Wanting the best for you? Helping you better yourself?”
Is that really what she thinks she’s doing?
It doesn’t matter. I can’t go on like this, biting my tongue and caving to her constant criticism. I won’t.
“Mama, I love you, but you need to stop trying to mold me into the perfect, pliant daughter. I’m not like you. I will never be like you, and if you can’t accept that fact, then that’s your problem.” My hands begin to shake, but I can’t stop now. She needs to hear this as much as I need to say it. Because I’m not like her. And I’m not like Gram. And that’s okay. “I’m a grown woman and I can make my own decisions. I don’t need a man to take care of me, and I sure as hell don’t need your passive aggressive judgment when you don’t agree with my life choices.”
“Well, I never,” she says, voice ripe with indignation.
“Exactly!” The words explode from my mouth, and several people turn to stare, but I don’t care. It’s a relief to finally shed the weight of her expectations. To face them head-on instead of yielding to the pressure. “You never stop to think about what I want. About what’s actually best for me.”
“I was just trying to help, sugar.”
“I know.” This is how she was raised. She’s a product of her environment, and so am I. Or I will be if I don’t break the cycle. “But if you really want to help, just be there for me. Support me. Listen without judgment.”
She’s silent for a long time, and though I want to apologize, to soften the impact of my words, I force myself to wait her out, counting the seconds as they tick by.
This is what setting healthy boundaries looks like.
And since I don’t want to be a doormat for the rest of my life, I need to get used to the feeling, no matter how uncomfortable it might be.
When she finally speaks, relief washes over me. “I’ll try.”
We say our goodbyes and I promise to call her next week so we can talk more when emotions aren’t running so high, but when I hang up, I feel like a new woman.
“Damn, girl.” Sofia leans over, pulling me into a crushing side hug. It’s exactly what I need, and I give silent thanks for Laurel Ann Myer and her missing pom-poms. If it weren’t for her, I would’ve missed out on the best friend in the world. “Can I just say I’m proud of you?”
“You know what?” I pull back to look her in the eye, a tiny smile curving my lips. “I’m pretty proud of myself.”
And it’s true. No matter how things play out, I’m doing what’s best for me.
Chapter Forty
Nick
I glare at the clock on the nightstand, which currently reads 5:22 in giant red numbers. It’s mocking me. It has to be, each minute passing more slowly than the last.
