She nods, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand.“Can we make brownies again tomorrow?”
Her voice is small, hopeful.
“Yes,” I whisper, lifting her face so she can see my smile.“We’ll make them again. And we’ll even use colored frosting this time.”
Her eyes brighten.“Okay!”
I help her into her pink dress, the one she twirls in until she gets dizzy. She looks like a miniature burst of sunshine in a house painted entirely in shades of white, black, and grey.
I change quickly in the bathroom, pearls, soft curls, the body-covering dress my mother says is“flattering for my body type,” whatever that means. My reflection looks back at me with tired eyes. A woman trying too hard to be too many things to too many people.
Mia slips her hand into mine as we step out into the hallway.
“Mommy, are we going to the grandparents’home?” she asks.
“Yes.”
She looks down at her shoes.“Ok.”
My stomach twists with the familiar dread that comes every time we drive to my parents’house. Their world is polished, curated, immaculate, and I am the fingerprint on the glass.
But Mia squeezes my hand, grounding me.
For her, I’ll walk into that house again.
I’ll smile. I’ll pretend.
I’ll survive.
Because for Mia, I would do anything.
???
We arrive at my parents’estate, a sprawling Southern mansion that looks more like a small kingdom than a home. White columns gleam in the fading light, manicured lawns stretch endlessly, and a fountain gurgles in the centre of the drive, the kind of wealth that doesn’t whisper; it announces itself.
The butler opens the door, and I take a deep breath before stepping inside, slipping on my over worn mask of composure. Lately, it’s been cracking, and whenever pieces of my real self peek through, the looks I get could curdle milk. I glance down at Mia. Her small hand is tucked into mine, her face serious, almost too knowing for an almost four-year-old.
“Everything okay, pumpkin?” I ask softly.
She sighs and nods, too wise for her age. Even she knows this place doesn’t allow laughter. I scrunch up my face in the silliest expression I can manage, and it works. She giggles, a fragile, fleeting sound that makes my chest ache with both love and sorrow.
Then I look up. My mother is standing in the foyer, all sharp angles and judgment.
“Summer, please don’t teach that child your awful mannerisms.”
My smile dies on the spot.“Of course, Mother.” I replace it with my best fake one, the one I’ve worn my whole life, and in my head, I give her the finger.
Let’s get this over with.
I hand our coats to the butler and follow Mother into the sitting room for brandy. Kevin is already there, cigar in hand, laughing with my Father about his latest business conquests. He doesn’t notice me, or maybe he just doesn’t care.
“Summer,” Father says as I slide into the chair beside my husband,“when are you two going to produce a male heir for us?”
He looks at me as though it’s my fault we haven’t.
“Soon, I hope,” Mother adds, as if my body were a calendar she could mark.
“Of course,” Kevin says, wearing the practiced smile of a man who has never had to be small.
