“You chose my teachers,” Isla continues.“My repertoire.Which competitions I entered.Which interviews I gave.You’ve done it all, Mother.”
“That’s called guidance.”
“You chose when I rested.When I pushed.When I smiled.”
Alisa folds her arms.“You needed structure.”
“You chose my agent,” Isla says.
Alisa’s lips press into a thin line.
“You chose which offers I saw,” Isla presses.
“That’s not?—”
“Did you ever show me the Berlin offer?”Isla asks.
The words slip out before she can stop them.
Alisa freezes.
The silence is absolute.
Isla’s heart begins to pound.“Therewasan offer, wasn’t there?”
Alisa turns away, pacing again.“Berlin would have been a distraction.”
“You said they never called,” Isla whispers.
“They weren’t right for you.”
“You decided that?”
“I knew what was best.”
Isla’s chest tightens painfully.“What about Vienna?”
“That schedule was too aggressive.”
“What about the London masterclass?”
“You were exhausted.”
“I wasn’t exhausted,” Isla says.“I was twenty.”
Alisa whirls back toward her.“And you were fragile.”
The words are a lie and twisted to her mother’s advantage.
“I was talented,” Isla says.“And ambitious.And scared, but not fragile.”
Alisa’s voice sharpens.“You were my responsibility.”
“I was your project.”
Alisa flinches.
The truth lands with brutal clarity.
