“Marisol!” My mother’s voice came through too loud, as always. “I’ve been thinking about reaching out to you for days.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Well, I just had to call and tell you how proud I am!”
I blinked, certain I’d misheard. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Proud! Your name came up for some wedding with a couple celebrities! Your father and I were at dinner with the Steinbecks—you remember Josie Steinbeck, she’s on the hospital board with me—and she showed us the photos on her tablet. That celebrity couple you worked with? It was magnificent, Marisol. Truly impressive.”
The praise felt like a cosmic joke. After years of striving for my mother’s approval and giving up on the idea that it would ever happen, it finally came from work I’d done with the man who’d betrayed me, at the lowest point in my professional life.
“Thanks,” I said flatly.
“And that partner of yours—Hudson, is it? Such a handsome man. Josie said he’s been named creative director at Modern Wedding! Is there something going on between you two? He seems like he comes from a good family.”
Of course. Of course she’d fixate on Hudson, just like everyone else.
“No. There’s nothing going on between us. And in case you’re curious, his parents are worse than mine.”
“Marisol!” she snapped. “I called to congratulate you, not to be belittled.”
“Yeah, well, I never asked for it growing up either.” Something inside me—something I’d thought was dead—flickered to life. Not my passion or my creativity, but a tiny spark of the old Mari. The one who didn’t take shit lying down. “You know, I remember you telling me my business was a waste of my education. I remember you saying wedding planning wasn’t a ‘actual career.’ I remember you skipping my business launch party because you had a charity gala that was ‘more important.’”
“That’s not fair?—”
“Suck it up, Mom. Life’s not fair. And you know what else isn’t fair? That the one time you call to say you’re proud of me, it’s when I’m at my absolute lowest. That you only recognize my success when it’s validated by people you’re trying to impress. That you’ve never once—not once—asked me if I’m happy or if I need anything or if I’m okay.”
A stunned silence followed my outburst. I could almost see my mother’s shocked expression, her perfectly manicured hand pressed to her chest.
“I... I didn’t realize you felt that way,” she finally said, her voice smaller than I’d ever heard it.
“Of course you didn’t. You never asked.”
Another pause. “Are you? Okay, I mean.”
“No,” I admitted, my voice catching. “I’m not okay at all.”
“What happened?” And for once, she sounded like she actually wanted to know.
I almost told her. About Hudson. About the app. About how thoroughly I’d been betrayed. But some self-protective instinct held me back. My mother had never been my confidante, and sharing too much would inevitably be a mistake.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said instead. “But what does matter is that I needed parents who were there for me through the ups and downs. Not just when I did something impressive enough to brag about to your friends.”
The silence stretched between us.
“You’re right,” she said finally, surprising me again. “Your father and I... we haven’t been the parents you deserved. I’m sorry.”
An apology. From my mother. If I hadn’t been so numb already, I might have fallen off the couch in shock.
“Thank you,” I said simply, not sure what else to add.
“Would you... would you like to talk about what’s wrong? I could come visit, or?—”
“No.” Some bridges couldn’t be rebuilt in a day. “But thank you for asking.”
“Alright.” She sounded uncertain. “Will you at least let me know if you need anything?”
“I will,” I promised, though we both knew I probably wouldn’t.
