I changed into one of the dresses my mother had approved. I spent too long staring at my reflection, trying to see what she did.
I walked into the dining hall. My father sat at the head of the table, reading a report on his datapad. He looked up when I sat beside him, his expression softening.
“How was your day, sweetheart?”
My throat tightened. It would’ve been easier to sayfine.
“Mother hates me,”
He sighed. “She doesn’t hate you, Maddy.”
“She hates everything about me,” I said quietly. “How I look, how I talk, how I work.”
“Your mother is… difficult,” he said in that careful tone people use when they’ve run out of excuses. “But she loves you.”
“She didn’t act like it.”
He opened his mouth to respond, but the doors swung open.
My mother entered like a woman walking onto a stage.
“Oh, Marco,” she sighed as she sat, napkin unfolding into her lap. “What a day.”
“So I hear,”
“And Madeline did so well socializing. Hard to believe her only friends are fictional.” she added.
The maid pouring wine inhaled sharply.
My father frowned. “Darling?—”
“What?” she asked. “She watches television all day. That’s not a personality. That’s avoidance.”
“You didn’t need to say that,” I murmured.
“Oh, darling,” she cooed, “you’re so sensitive.”
The maid set down the basket of dinner rolls between us and fled as politely as possible.
I reached for one, because I hadn’t eaten since the luncheon and I was shaking.
My mother’s hand snapped out, fingers closing around my wrist.
“Maddy,” she hissed. “Bread?”
I froze.
“I put broth on the menu for you. I told you, your dresses were tight. Do you want to be poured into them?”
Shame burned hot under my skin.
“I didn’t?—”
“Carbs bloat. You hold everything in your face.”
My father looked pained. “Let her eat.”
She sighed. “Well, we don’t want her ballooning, do we? After all the effort I put into crafting her image.”
