"Yes," I mutter.
She turns the tray around and examines it, then grabs one without asking, bites and instantly hums.
"Very good," she says with ricotta in the corner of hermouth.
I watch her, caught somewhere between laughing and screaming. If this isn't proof I need better boundaries, I don't know what is.
"Italians know their way around the kitchen," she says.
"And other things." It slips out, all innuendo in it, before I can catch myself.
She pauses mid-chew, expression buckling. "Excuse me?"
"I said that I agree," I say too fast, but her brows are still furrowed.
"Where did you get them?"
"Oh. They opened a new Italian bakery around Rincon," I lie, pacing to the closet, each step making me angrier. I'm pissed at myself, pissed at the situation.
I close the door and sigh at my reflection.
Goodbye red lace. Hello, boring cotton, wool sweater, all evidence of pleasure erased.
When I return, she's rinsing her hands from the last traces of ricotta down the drain, wipes them and straightens her pearls.
"How's the writing going? Samantha told me she readYou Don't Know This. She loved it. I was proud."
I turn to her, frowning. Did I mishear? Or did she confuse me with someone who's ever been enough for her?
I guess not, because then she adds that she read it too and it was well written, and I give her the driestthanks, despite the way it punches a hole in my chest. Because I'm disoriented, scanning for tripwires the way I used to as a kid.
My mother vowed she'd never read my work, probablybecause she was terrified of what I might expose. A wise self-preservation tactic because my writing is my disguised open journal.
"The mother character, though?" she adds suddenly. "She was complex."
Here it comes. She must know it's her. She'll say how I exaggerated, how I always twist things.
"I understand her in a way," she says instead, calm as a pond. "It's not easy to be a parent. You children always think that we're perfect, and that puts a lot of pressure on us."
My face empties out. "Yeah. I guess."
She mumbles something else, but I'm nose deep in my phone.
Ben:I'm with you. Bring an umbrella if you go out
"How's your sleep?" Mom asks.
"My sleeping?" I echo, brows knitting on their own, and put my phone away.
"Yes. Is it better?"
"Eeh, yeah. It's good."
"No nightmares?"
Okay, now I'm genuinely concerned. Is this a stroke? Some neurological glitch masquerading as maternal concern? My mother never talks about my mental issues.
I stare at her too long. Then snap, "No."
