“Exactly,” my brother says, his voice cracking, almost a cry for help. “We’re her kids. How can she just throw us away for someone she barely even knows?”
I nod through the tears, throat raw. “She chose him. And she’ll keep choosing him.” The love we begged for isn’t coming back. And nothing—nothing—will ever be the same.
? ??
It’s been over six months since my mom started seeing her boyfriend, and my brother and I have pretty much mastered the art of tuning them both out. He still doesn’t see her for who she really is—I guess she’s good at playing sweet when she wants to be.
The one thing she hit the jackpot on is his job.
He works in the oil fields, which means money—and lots of it. No kids and a steady income. She probably thinks she won the damn lottery.
As for me, I couldn’t care less about him trying to fill some “dad” role. I’ve gone this long without one and turned out fine enough. It’s hard to miss something you never had.
Give it time though—he’ll regret letting her into his life before he can blink twice. I regret it, and I didn’t even get a choice.
Chapter Three
Happy Birthday
I
t’s my sixteenth birthday, and my mom surprisedme with a trip to the nail salon. Imagine that—sixteen years old, and this is the first time I’m going to the salon. My stomach flutters anyway, butterflies smacking against my ribs like they can’t find a way to get out. She never does stuff like this for me. Ever.
Usually, it’s the same tired excuse; it’stoo expensive for a single mom blah blah.I mean what’s the point in having a boyfriend with money if he isn’t going to give you any? But I swallow the words I really want to say, because pushing her never ends well.
But today, I let myself believe this might mean something. Maybe this is her turning point. Maybe pigs really do fly.
We sit side by side, drills buzzing while dust flies in the air, and for a minute it almost feels natural. Like maybe we’re that cliché mother-daughter duo that you see laughing and bonding like best friends.
I even let myself daydream—what if this becomes our thing? Our little tradition. Girls’ days every few weeks. Her and I, side by side, choosing colors, giggling like we’re the Gilmore Girls.
A girl can hope. Or delude herself.
Same thing.
She goes first, of course. She always knows exactly what she wants—usually bright colors, squared tips, gel over her natural nails. I sit indecisive, but mostly careful. It’s my birthday, but God forbid I ask for something that she thinks is too much.
I love nails with bling and glitter but asking for too much with her is basically asking for war. And I’m not starting World War III in a salon chair on my birthday
. So instead, I pull out my phone and record. I capture everything—the drills, the chatter, her actually looking like she’s enjoying herself. Because deep down I know I’ll need it later.
Proof that shecanact like a mom when she feels like it. Proof that maybe I’m not a complete disappointment.
Her face softens, her eyes light up, and I almost let myself feel it—warmth. “You were such a white baby—like a piece of paper with super dark curly hair. I didn’t even know whose baby they were trying to hand me.” She laughs like it’s a joke. “I wanted you to be a dark chocolate baby, with dark curly hair. I just knew you were going to be my cute little chocolate drop.”
Her words hit me straight to the core. I stop the recording quick—no way am I savingthatmemory. Just my fucking luck, I came out the wrong shade and ruined herbig dreams.
Sorry I wasn’t the chocolate-drop doll you pre-ordered, Mom. My bad. If it were up to me I would’ve picked different parents, but apparently, we don’t get that option in life.
I sit silently, while she keeps talking about the baby she wish she had—like I’m not sitting next to her breathing the same fucking air.
Every word she says feels like another reminder that I’m another mistake she’ll never get over.
I stare at the floor, trying to blink the sting out of my eyes, but it doesn’t help.
It’s crazy how one comment can crawl under your skin and make you wish you could peel yourself out of your own body just to stop feeling it.
When it’s my turn, I sink into the chair, drowning out the shuffle of strangers. If she noticed I’ve shut down, she doesn’t ask.
