Inside, it feels like I’m going through one of those death by a thousand cuts kind of tortures.
Why can’t she just fuckingloveme?
I have to stand there like the dutiful son, pretending this isn’t ripping me apart even more because I know it’s just an act.
It’s not real.
Nothing about tonight with her has been real.
Reality is all the times I asked for some of her time, whether for homework or to go do something with me, and I was told how busy she was and how I didn’t appreciate how hard she worked. How I should be more grateful she spent so much time working, because it helped pay for all the nice things she gave me, and the nice house we lived in. Always emphasizing how my father never helped out at all.
Reality is being one of the “orphaned” kids at school events where everyone else’s parents showed up, like science fairs and school plays.
But she was busy.
Every fucking year. Every fucking time. Because of her money, and later because of Austin’s money and the prestige of his law firm, and the fact that he made generous donations to the PTO, teachers would hold phone conferences instead of in-person parent-teacher meetings.
Reality is my mother couldn’t have recognized a single damn one of my teachers if they’d walked up and smacked her in the face.
Reality is I can’t count the number of times Mom had either one of her assistants or one of Austin’s take me to or pick me up from events. She was too busy.
Always too busy.
Reality was once I was older, she set me up with my own Uber account and had me use that, until I was old enough to drive myself.
And now she wants me to stand here with a smile on my face and pretend she’s Mother of the Year.
Worse?
I’ll let her.
Worse still?
I’ll enable her, agree with her, smiling and nodding my head like the good little puppet I’ve been all my life.
For a few minutes, between dinner and dessert, I escape to my old bathroom and lock myself in, struggling not to cry because she’ll recognize it, know that I’ve been crying.
Worse, so will Carter. I know he will. I don’t want to cry around my mother, but I refuse to cry in front of Carter. Not after everything he’s survived and endured.
Maybe he can kick my ass even after all he’s been through, but in this one way I want to try to measure up.
To endure.
But it’s so fucking hard.
The evening is more tolerable for Carter’s presence, and for the way he keeps running interference, but he can’t stop every instance. Then he’s across the room, engaged in conversation with one of the senior partners who could talk the paint off a wall, when Mom traps me by hooking her arm through mine.
Old, ingrained reactions kick in, the familiar, sour taste in my mouth, the tense pain congealing in my stomach. All these are no strangers to me. My gaze drops to the floor and I struggle to remain in place as my body tenses.
If I pull away from her, the way every instinct I have is screaming for me to, I’ll pay later.
I’ll pay in ways I probably can’t imagine for daring to embarrass her by doing it.
Carter’s not here, and I can’t bring myself to look around for him, knowing Mom will somehow sense that. She doesn’t care if I’m paying attention to her, but she will definitely care if it’s obvious that I’mnot.
Mom’s droning on about some fundraiser she’s leading, and I hope to god she’s not thinking about trying to enlist me to help her with it. The last thing I need is more stress on me. At least I have the excuse of my classwork I can use.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Mrs. Solemar, but I think I left my meds out in Owen’s car, and I’m overdue to take them. Owen, if you’ll give me your keys, I’ll go get them.”
