“I was experimenting.” My voice was reed thin. “Trying to figure out what I liked.”
“Of course you were.” Mom took a delicate bite of salad. “But darling, you’re twenty-eight now. Don’t you think it’s time to think about something more... practical? Art is a wonderful hobby, but as a career?” She laughed softly. “I don’t think you’re cut out for that.”
“Plenty of people make careers out of art.”
“Plenty of people try.” She reached for her tea. “And most of them struggle. I just don’t want to see you disappointed when it doesn’t work out the way you hope.”
“You don’t know that it won’t work out.”
“I’m just being realistic, Emily. Someone has to be.” She glanced at Dad, who was studying his plate like it contained the secrets of the universe. “We sacrificed so much for you growing up. All those pageants, the coaches, the dresses, the travel. Do you have any idea how much we invested in your future?”
There it was. The bill, presented with a cold smile.
“I didn’t ask for any of that.”
“Of course you didn’t. You were a child. We made those decisions because we wanted the best for you.” Her voice had that careful, wounded quality that made me feel like I was the one being unreasonable. “We wanted you to have opportunities, to make something of yourself. And you were so good at it, Emily. You were beautiful up there on that stage. Everyone said so.”
My throat felt tight. “I hated it.”
“You were nervous. That’s natural. But you always rose to the occasion.” She reached across the table like she might take my hand but stopped short. “I just wish you’d appreciated it more at the time. All the work we put in, the doors we opened for you. And then...” She trailed off, shaking her head.
She didn’t say it. She never said it. But we both knew what came after “and then.”
And then I ruined everything.
“I think what your mother is trying to say,” Dad spoke up for the first time, his voice mild, “is that we want you to be happy. Whatever that looks like.”
That sure as fuck was not what she was trying to say. She’d never given a flying fuck about my happiness.
Mom’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. “Of course that’s what I’m saying. You just need to be realistic about your choices. Art school at twenty-eight, with no guarantee of employment afterward? That’s not a plan, that’s a fantasy.”
“It’s my dream.”
“And what happens when you’re thirty-five and still living paycheck to paycheck, wondering where it all went wrong?” She took another bite of salad, chewing thoughtfully. “I’m just thinking ahead, sweetheart. Someone has to.”
I set down my fork, my appetite gone. “I should probably get going.”
“Already?” Mom’s eyebrows rose. “But you just got here. We haven’t even had dessert.”
“I have some work to finish for tomorrow.” The lie came easily. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, if you must.” She stood, smoothing down her blouse. “I’ll walk you out.”
Dad remained seated, already reaching for the newspaper folded beside his plate. I followed Mom back through the perfect house to the perfect front door.
“Emily.” She touched my arm as I stepped onto the porch. “I hope you know I only say these things because I love you.”
I looked at her. Really looked at her. Saw the careful makeup, the styled hair, the practiced expression of concern. Saw the woman who’d built her entire identity around having a beautyqueen daughter and never forgave me for taking that away from her.
“I know, Mom.”
“Good.” She smiled, satisfied. “We’ll do this again soon. Maybe next time you can tell me about something more exciting than art classes.”
“Sure.”
I walked to my car on legs that felt disconnected from my body, got in, closed the door, and sat there with my hands on the steering wheel.
I’d barely lasted half an hour.
